The Changeable Tide
by Aerides
Summary: In a bid to prevent any more bloodshed, Christine agrees to run away with Erik on the night of Don Juan Triumphant. But how will she live with the Phantom of the Opera when they both have so many secrets. E/C
1. Prologue

**The Changeable Tide**

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**Summary – Christine learned long ago that the Angel of Music was anything but predictable. But nothing could have prepared her for the opening night of Don Juan Triumphant and the realisation that the Phantom of the Opera would always be three steps ahead.**

**Disclaimer – I own nothing, nor am I making money from my insane ramblings. This is only for fun and writing practise.**

**A/N - This was a little plot idea that came to me while I was staying ****in France with the grandparents. The landscape around their village was pretty inspiring and I felt like using it as a setting because I tend to feel more comfortable writing about places that I'm familiar with. It didn't help that we visited Christian Dior's house and they had a bal masque theme for their exhibition. More on this later. Reviews will be appreciated muchly as per usual XD.**

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**Prologue**

**S**he was shaking uncontrollably as she took to the stage, wild eyed and blinded in the limelight. This was a nightmare, her worst nightmare. She had stage fright at the best of times but usually when the music flared to life she would be carried away by its seductive tide. But this music was different, it was malevolent and cruel and did nothing calm her nerves. This was his music. And unlike the songs he had enchanted her with as a child, this score made its point abundantly clear. "This is me" it said with every dissonance "This is what I am capable of. This is what I could do to you." Of course to the audience it was only an opera, a little modern, a little hard on the ear, a little controversial in its subject matter but still only an opera. Christine knew better.

The armed Gendarmes weren't helping either. They made her nervous. Raoul didn't seem to understand that his oh so ingenious plan could be easily overheard in the manager's office. And even if he had been more secretive, the plan was so painfully obvious that the composer of this particular opera could probably predict every aspect of it without even leaving his room. It was wrong from the start of course, perhaps it was her Lutheran upbringing or her father's liberal attitudes and philosophy's but murder was still murder, even if the ones committing it had the law on their side. Raoul didn't seem to understand that either. This was not one of her father's stories, he was not Siegfried and there were no dragons here to be slain. Only a man...

Something had to be done before someone got hurt.

Her eyes widened when Piangi missed his cue. It was only a short delay, probably unnoticeable to the audience. Why did they have to do this when there was a theatre full of innocent people sitting before them? The notion was sick, it was reckless, it was too high a risk.

Then the voice that sang the title role was not the voice of any cast member, but she knew it all too well. She might not have known anything about him, only hints and allusions, she did not even know his real name or if he even had one, but she knew that voice. Better than any other voice, living or dead.

She was always defenceless against his music. And this music with its darkness and desire and the added power of the orchestra made her legs feel weak, as though she might faint at any moment. And his voice, she could not resist his voice. And as it entwined with hers, there was nothing that could compare to that feeling. It was as though her soul had harmonized with land and sea and sky and all was right with the world for those few precious moments.

The duet was over far too soon for her liking and as Christine slowly drifted back into reality she felt his arms about her waist. The Audience looked on in shock. What had just happened? She didn't remember this from rehearsals.

He sang to her then, so softly she was sure only she could hear it. The song had changed its tone, to something more fragile, pierced with longing and pain. "Can you feel this pain" the melody seemed to say, "Does it seem familiar? Let me share the burden of this pain with you. This loneliness... Yes, this is loneliness." it tugged on her heartstrings. This was that part where she was supposed to identify him, to call out the guards and end this. She was on the cliff's edge, the rough seas below churning through jagged rocks. This was a fateful decision indeed. A decision between what was expected of her and what her heart felt was right.

What would father do? Of course he would tell her to follow her heart, and stand up for her beliefs and her art. Father would never condone violence if there was a way of avoiding it.

His song drew to a close and the theatre was plunged into a tense silence; the last phrases lingering in her mind.

"_Anywhere you go let me got too. Christine, that's all I ask of you."_

There was an agonising pause. She could already see the policemen in the wings and she knew she had to act now.

"Let's go." She said barely above a whisper. The words were so practical, so short and yet so full of meaning.

Suddenly they were plunged into darkness and Christine felt them hurtle downwards into the abyss that lay beneath the trap door. She could only hope that she had made the right decision.

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**To be continued...**


	2. An Empty Cellar

** An Empty Cellar**

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**Disclaimer – Totally don't own it.**

**Epic Insanity – Thank you so much, and also yay first reviewer on this story. I'm glad you like my ramblings XD.**

**A/N – Ok here's a proper chapter for you, this one actually has dialogue! Wow! –shot-**

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The fall was terrifying, Christine could hear the commotion above them before the trapdoor snapped shut again, plunging them into darkness. They landed on something soft, something taut like the nets they used at the circus in case the trapeze artists fell. Had he put that there? Just how long had he been planning this? Something had caught her shoulder blade on the way down, perhaps a stray nail or a splinter of wood, regardless it had ripped though the back of her costume and tore her skin beneath. She had barely noticed in all the chaos but now the sting began to make itself known and she winced from the pain. Was she bleeding?

Without a word, he led her down that familiar route to the house on the lake. The place was darker than before, with only a few lanterns hanging on the wall, the hundreds of candles and books and curiosities were nowhere to be found. She couldn't help but gasp in shock when she saw that the place had been almost completely emptied. If the towering pipe organ hadn't remained in its alcove she would have thought that they had come to the wrong place. The instrument looked terribly lonely, without its usual blanket of half-written scores and scribbled notes. On the other side of the lair in front of a tall mirror, on its side lay the doll, undressed and lonely revealing a body of carved wood and ball joints. The effigy was like everything else her angel made, a work of pure genius, and in her half dreaming state it had looked as though it had been alive. In all the stories she had read, seeing one's doppelganger was never a good omen.

The thing still unsettled her, even more so now that the wedding dress was removed. She had always been a little afraid of dolls. As a child she had received one as a gift from one of her father's patrons. The little blonde thing had a head made of hardened beeswax and she remembered that she had foolishly left it in the hot July sun all afternoon and had found it with half its face melted and disfigured with its glass eyes staring out at her in accusation. Why was her passive copy to be left behind? Had it fulfilled its purpose? Did he no longer desire it now that he had the real thing?

"You're hurt." He broke the silence first, making her jump.

She touched her shoulder and felt the cut, the blood already beginning to clot. The wound was long but fairly shallow, really only a bad scratch in places.

"It's nothing." she said softly. He gave her a pained look, as though he didn't quite believe her, but did not comment. He fetched a bundle of clothes from...somewhere and handed them to her.

"Put these on, you can change in the other room."

She took them without protest, somehow expecting the bundle to contain the wedding dress the doll had modelled but was surprised to see a plain black day dress and an equally dark travelling coat, completed with a veiled hat and a sturdy pair of boots. The outfit confirmed her suspicions. Of course he did not simply intend to keep her down here, that was far too obvious, and if Madame Giry knew of this place then they could easily be found. He was about to take her away, she had no idea where to and the thought frightened her. Would they be on the run? Would they be pursued? How would they even get out of the opera house and even if they did, could the two of them really live together? She realised that she knew nothing of this man, the angelic voice of her youth had been gone for a long time and yet she still clung to the illusion like a foolish child. Aside from their first meeting she had only seen him when he was angry, a rage that thinly veiled a whole plethora of misery. Had she not seen his face that time, she would not have noticed this sadness, but the raw emotion of it still haunted her more than any physical deformity. His passion onstage was something she had never witnessed before.

She changed quickly in the empty bedroom which had been reduced to a cold and dank hole without its splendid furniture and tapestries, the clothes fit her fairly well but the shoes were a little too big for her and she had to lace them tightly in case one o them fell off en route. She returned to find that her unusual companion had also changed into his customary dark suit and cloak; his black mask had been swapped for a more discreet flash coloured one. In the darkness he could almost pass for an ordinary man.

"You look troubled, Christine. Are you having second thoughts?" he asked, noticing her worried expression.

Was she? She didn't dare think of the consequences if she left him now. There would certainly be blood spilled if there hadn't been already. She couldn't bear the thought of someone dying because of her and she couldn't bear to lose the man who for so many years had been her dearest friend.

"Where do you intend to take us, Monsieur?" she asked, changing the subject. "More importantly, how do you plan to get us out of here? There are armed guards on every exit."

"Of course, you fiancé's little trap..." he said derisively his voice dripping with sarcasm "Truly a tactical masterpiece." He pushed the mirror aside to reveal another hidden passageway behind it. "Now I'll ask again, are you having second thoughts?"

There was a long pause. The scenario was beginning to feel a little like the duet they had just shared for this was most definitely a point of no return. Of course she was absolutely terrified. This was probably the stupidest thing she'd ever done, even thinking of getting involved with someone who had almost certainly committed at least one murder, and probably the most exhilarating...

"It's a little late for second thoughts." she replied. "I won't deny that I'm frightened. But I haven't changed my mind."

* * *

She had come with him willingly. And now she was with him, in the remains of his home, telling him that she wished to follow him. He still could not believe it. Although he had been counting on her to lose her nerve, to not be able to go through with the little plan her lover and those two idiots had thought up. They didn't know her like he did. They didn't realise that Christine was a gentle soul who felt sad when she found dead flies on the windowsill. She would never be able to let a person be harmed, even a monster like him. She had certainly grown up a lot since he had first seen her, but a shred of the child remained, lost and alone with her head filled with her father's pretty stories and idealist views.

She hadn't exactly given him an ideal answer. There he was pouring his morbid little heart out and all she had to say was "let's go"? Still it was better than "There he is! The man who kidnapped me, the one in the mask!" which was what he had been expecting as a worst case scenario, or worse she could have just ripped his mask off like she had done that first night. Actions spoke louder than words after all. But she had seen his rage that day, and knew better than to expose the cream of Parisian society to that kind of wrath. He had a plan for that as well, if she were to betray him so terribly he would have burned the opera house to the ground and made her watch.

But then she would only have to look at him with those damned eyes of hers and he would lose his nerve. He could never stay angry at her for long. Even during their lessons she would look so upset when he scolded her about her breathing or her posture that he would always apologise later and sing for her or bring her roses. If she held so much power over him back then when she was just an innocent child and his affection for her had only been as a friend and teacher, it was nothing compared to what he felt for her now. He would worship her until the day he died if she would only let him, but ever since they had met face to face they done nothing but tear each other apart.

He couldn't blame her though. He had been the once to deceive her, who drove her to look behind the mask and in his rage he had driven her straight into the arms of that boy. Oh he hated Raoul deChagny, simply for existing and being everything he couldn't be, but the greatest object of his hatred was himself.

While she had asked for them to leave together, she had managed to avoid giving him an answer to his fevered proposal. "Let's go" was neither a refusal nor a true acceptance. Perhaps she had not understood what he was asking; he had not given her the ring yet, so it was a possibility. He had never explicitly made his intentions known to her before that evening just as she had made him no promises. But surely she must have had some ideal; he had practically made love to her on stage, or at least it had been the closest he had come to making love to a woman. Every tortured note in that damn opera had been written for her, to the point where it almost seemed improper for the audience to hear it. But that was ridiculous; he couldn't exactly leave the theatre in silence for four minutes and thirty three seconds. That was a little too avant-garde, even for him.

He had wanted so desperately to make her happy, after his outburst. The first thing he could think of was to advance her career, thinking that perhaps if he could give her money and fame and wonderful leading roles to sing then perhaps she would return to him. Of course that had all ended in disaster and he had only pushed her further away with his threats and violence. And it became clear that although she loved to sing more than anything in the world, she did not the attention she received for it. Nor did she like the scandals surrounding her because of him and from being courted by the Viscount.

Then the idea had struck him, if he could just take her away from it all, try to give her a quiet and normal life, then perhaps she might grow to care for him again, only not as an angel this time or the intimidating phantom but as a man.

And so in the last six months or so he had set about the mammoth task of finding a property for them, finalising the sale and moving all of his possessions to the new house. The money he had demanded from the managers all those years was more than enough to buy the property a short distance away from a village on the northern coast known as Regneville-sur-mer. The house was perfect, it was out of the way, and the place it was out of the way from was practically empty for most of the year and the grounds were surrounded by high walls so they could remain hidden if they wished.

But as he had led her though the bowels of the opera house he had felt her tense and for a horrible moment he had though that she would turn from him and try to run. Her hand remained in his though and it was only when they came into the light did he notice that she was bleeding and her dress hung tattered from her shoulder. That was his first mistake; he had not thought to see if the fall from the trapdoor would be safe for two people, nor had he kept anything to treat it with. How could he have been so foolish, he had only taken her a few minutes ago and she was already injured, how on earth would he be able to take care of her if this was the best he could do.

He could not stop staring at the exposed white skin of her back and shoulder blade every curve and plane of it was perfection, and the sight of the angry red wound, staining the fabric of her dress was like a tear in a priceless tapestry. And like the disgusting creature that he was he found that both the perfection of her skin and the mark he had inadvertently afflicted filled him with an intense rush of desire.

He could see the fear in her eyes, the uncertainty. Perhaps she knew what he was thinking, or perhaps she was only afraid of the empty cellar, or of the doll. He wished he had never made the damn thing, its cold perfection was always there, staring at him lifelessly, judging him. It only enhanced his loneliness and made him feel pathetic and ashamed. He should have destroyed it a long time ago but felt that it would be disrespectful to burn Christine, even if it was only in effigy.

He had sent her way to change into the travelling clothes he had bought for her. He did the same and tried not to think of her undressing in the other room, now was definitely not the time to get distracted. If they were to make it through the mines undetected they would have to do it quickly. When she emerged, the unease in her expression was still obvious. He could tell so much from her eyes that they could probably communicate fairly well without her ever speaking to him at all.

"You look troubled, Christine. Are you having second thoughts?" he asked, dreading the answer.

"Where do you intend to take us, Monsieur? More importantly, how do you plan to get us out of here? There are armed guards on every exit." She was getting unnaturally good at avoiding his questions.

"Of course, you fiancé's little trap..." he replied opening the hidden passageway behind the mirror. If she was not going to answer him, he though childishly, he certainly wasn't going to answer her. "Truly a tactical masterpiece. Now I'll ask again, are you having second thoughts?"

She hesitated, and he felt his heart turn to lead in his chest, she was definitely going to change her mind this time.

"It's a little late for second thoughts." she replied after what felt like hours. "I won't deny that I'm frightened. But I haven't changed my mind."

"Do I frighten you, Christine?" he whispered. "Does the memory of this face fill you with terror?"

"It is not your face, Angel, more that I am about to go to an unknown place with a man who has not even told me his name."

"My name is Erik." He breathed, the name sounded strange he had not said it for a very long time, and had never once been addressed by it. He had many names throughout his past. The Devil's Child, The Living Corpse, Hamzaad the singing ghost, Israfil the death bringer, Xi Tong the white devil, The Phantom, The Angel of music. Erik seemed so ordinary after titles such as those it was almost laughable. Still she repeated his name and he felt as though his heart might explode from the speed it was beating. No woman had ever called him by his real name.

"Now will you come with me?" he asked, holding out a gloved hand, feeling that rush again as she took it and let him lead her through the darkness.

* * *

Lieutenant Patrice Mifroid was sceptic of the highest order. So when he was assigned this particular case the sheer preposterousness of the accounts given to him had put him in a foul mood. But perhaps even more than the whole stupid affair, the men who had reported it put him in an even worse disposition. There was something about the two managers that he did not like; a certain inherent sense of entitlement that was a breeding ground for dishonesty. An opera ghost demanding money? The whole idea was ridiculous, and it was far more likely that it was the managers themselves scraping a little of the investors money away for themselves. He'd seen many fraudsters in his time and these two were definitely beginning to fit the bill.

And there was the third man, some nobleman or whatever on earth he was. Admittedly Mifroid couldn't exactly blame the boy for being a naive idiot; the upper classes were all raised that way and it made the socialist in him mutter and grumble in the corner. Whatever happened to all men being equals?

If there was indeed a disfigured madman living beneath the Opera House all these years undetected, which was possible he supposed, then he would surely be a little more cautious than the young viscount proposed. Also the involvement of civilians in this little plan of his was sure to end badly, if this Phantom character was provoked, they would be looking at a hostage situation at best. Personally he was horrified at the carelessness of the plan and doubly horrified when his superiors had not listened to his reasoning and forced him to follow orders. His dislike for the viscount had intensified when he discovered that he was planning to use his own fiancé as bait to lure out a possible murderer. Yes, the man was definitely a marvellous catch for any young woman.

That had been before the performance. Mifroid had never liked the Opera, far too screechy. The arts in general left him feeling as though he had missed something important, that everyone else seemed to understand except him. He was a science man. You knew where you were with science. Like enforcing the law, you find a theory and then you prove it with evidence. This Opera was different though. As he watched from his post in Box Five, praying that none of the officers would get spooked or trigger happy and shoot someone by accident, he couldn't help but be moved by the score. It was as though someone had found the source of all his suffering and his sins and his nefarious thoughts and taken a sledgehammer to it. It made him feel very uncomfortable, and he could see that the audience felt it too. The music accused you; it pointed fingers, the music made you feel the way its composer felt. It was the sound of loneliness.

The girl looked nervous but her voice was perfect, he knew if their roles were reversed he would be terrified, but then again he would never have agreed to participate in anything so unnecessarily dangerous. He had been so swept away by the performance that he didn't realise until it was too late that the lead tenor had grown a few inches taller and lost a considerable amount of weight. Perhaps there was a problem backstage and he was an understudy? Although with a voice like that it was a wonder why, he had never heard anything so beautiful. If it wasn't an understudy then...no, it couldn't be... It was! It must have been because the viscount looked as though he was about to cry. This was the point where he was supposed to order his men into pursuit, but this so called Phantom was onstage, holding the prima donna as though they were lovers, but God only knew what he could do if they got too close. He gestured wildly for the gendarmes to hold back, and he only hoped the woman up there remained calm. A sudden moment of panic could prove disastrous. And if the masked man had known of their plan all along, how else had he outfoxed them? Why, the whole audience could be in danger somehow.

And before they even knew that had been outwitted, the 'ghost' and the soprano were gone and the body of Ubaldo Piangi was discovered in the wings with a rope around his neck.

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Christine found herself in a subterranean labyrinth far more intricate than the journey to the underground lair. The tunnel seemed to stretch for miles of twists and turns and the faint lamplight illuminated alcoves and chambers, or other passageways leading downward only to be flooded. The most disturbing part of the journey was the mounds of what looked like human skeletons that littered the cavern floor and the rather strange graffiti that had been scratched and painted on its walls. Did he build these tunnels? No, they looked far too old for that, and not her Angel, or Erik as he'd revealed to her, would be able to dig something this vast on his own. It was getting dank and claustrophobic, the ceiling was getting lower, any lower and they would have to crouch or crawl along the ground with the spiders. And that damp smell, the smell of human decay, she thought that she might throw up at any moment. What if they got stuck? Or lost down in this hell forever?

"Oh dear Lord, what manner of place is this?" she whispered frantically, feeling the familiar swell of panic and nausea just before her foot caught on a mouldering skull and she stumbled forward.

He was as quick as lightning as he turned and grabbed her by the arm with his free hand to steady her. It was funny how he was always there to catch her.

"We're almost there." He said, not making any move to let her go, as if fearing that she would bolt the other way.

"I don't like it here. Oh god, how can you stand it? All this death!"

"Just a little further, Christine, and then we'll be outside." He whispered and began to pull her along. She couldn't exactly run away, or she would surely get lost. So for now she had to trust him. There would a time for confrontations later on, when they were safe and no longer on the run. Perhaps if they could just be alone for a while, and talk without anyone else interfering, perhaps they could go back to how they once were. These past months she had missed her unusual angel, her dearest friend and most brilliant teacher.

* * *

"Well, I hate to say I told you so, Monsieur, but..." Mifroid looked at the spot where Christine Daae had last been seen, the managers were out in the foyer refunding all the tickets they had sold, and as his men saw to the body he was left with a very anxious viscount "It appears as though things didn't quite go according to plan."

"Well can't we follow them?" the viscount cried, looking distraught. "We have to save her! Who knows what that monster plans to do to her down there?" Mifroid raised an eyebrow, he should really have thought of that before he put her up there like a sitting duck. But he decided against pointing out that little detail.

"Well by the looks of things our friend seems to have rigged a series of trap doors to open simultaneously, from this switch here." He gave the wooden lever a sharp kick to reveal a sheer drop, the end of which was concealed in shadows. The Shaft remained opened for a few seconds, just long enough for someone to fall through, before it snapped shut again. "And then it shuts itself automatically. That's very clever, very clever indeed."

"Clever! My fiancé has been kidnapped by that madman and all you can do is admire how clever he is? Why did your men not shoot him when you had the chance?" Raoul shouted, his distress had made his temper short. He ineffectual rage reminded Mifroid a little of his wife's pet dachshund, but he managed not to laugh, realising that if Mme Mifroid had been taken from him, he'd probably be in a similar state. Although in all honesty, Mlle Daae hadn't looked all that distressed. Perhaps she was in on the whole thing, there was really only one way to find out, and that was to apprehend the murderer of Ubaldo Piangi.

"It just struck me as rather ingenious, that's all. And it means that he must have been planning this for some months, and you my friend walked straight into his trap, not the other way around. As for not ordering my men to open fire, apart from the very real possibility of a stray bullet hitting a cast member, this..." he pointed to a rather taught looking rope "if you would care to follow it, is the only thing holding up the chandelier. Another of our friends tricks. If we had made a move he could have crushed the audience and probably torched the entire building to boot." He hadn't discovered this until after the performance but thought it proved handy to make his point.

Raoul de Chagney gave him a defeated look "Then what do you propose we do?"

"We, which is to say the officers and I will track them down of course." said Mifroid, as though it was the simplest thing in the world. "You on the other hand will stay here and make a full statement along with everyone else we're currently questioning."

"I'm coming with you." He said stubbornly.

"You will do no such thing, you'll only slow us down, and id a confrontation occurs you'll become a liability."

"I've fought him before and I can do it again. If Christine hadn't stopped me he would be dead already."

That was interesting. So the girl didn't want this man dead. Was just a gentle soul or did her reasons run deeper. Perhaps it was be better for him to keep the viscount close and get more information out of him. "Very well, you may help; just try not to do anything foolish. Now the first thing to do is to find a way to follow them."

The Viscount nodded, "I'll fetch Mme Giry; perhaps she can lead us to him."

"Do you actually mean to tell me that you know someone who knows of his whereabouts?" the lieutenant rounded on him "Are you actually telling me that the whole time my men were wasting their valuable time carrying out your stupid, juvenile and frankly, dangerous plan when we could have simply gone to his home and taken him by surprise!"

"I'm afraid that would not have been possible, Inspector." Someone said behind him. He turned to see a striking woman in mourning clothes "The contraptions he had built under the stage are nothing compared to the traps he has built down there. To go down there is certain death." She sighed "But I shall take you as far as I can. There have been too many accidents; someone must put a stop to them."

"Madame, a man has been murdered!" the lieutenant replied "Now if you know anything that can help us find this man faster, it would be prudent to give us that information."

* * *

After what felt like hours Christine finally felt a breeze on her face and even dared to see a glimmer of moonlight ahead of them. Through the rest of the trek, she had not once let go of Erik's hand, and being careful to watch her step, taking comfort in the fact that at the very least he knew how to get them out of this place. He had not spoken since her outburst. His silence frightened her, and once more it became painfully obvious that she knew virtually nothing about this man. Perhaps he had lied to her once again and he intended to keep her down here with him forever, or even kill her and leave her here in this darkness with the other human remains. But if that was the plan then she would probably be dead already. After Joseph Bouquet had been found, she had thought that he would surely come after her next. She had seen his face, she had betrayed him, surely that was reason enough for him to strike her down. But instead he had disappeared for nearly six months, and that had worried her even more.

"There is out exit." Her strange companion stated, gesturing to an old grating above them "Now once you're outside I want you to stay close to the wall and off the tracks, and whatever you do, do not let yourself be seen."

"Tracks? You mean we're..." she did not have time to finish her question before he had reached up and moved the iron covering aside.

"We're currently beneath La Gare Saint-Lazare, and if we don't hurry we'll miss our train."

Before she could ask any more questions, Christine felt his hands at her waist and was suddenly lifted as though she weighed nothing at all. She gave a surprised squeak but somehow managed to get her footing on a small ledge and reach the exit to pull herself up and out into the freezing night. She could have probably been able to climb up on her own, but perhaps he was being impatient.

Once she was outside she did as she was told, they were beneath a bridge made of iron, blackened by years of burning coal. Beyond its entrance she could see the glass structures of the station platforms and the clock tower whose hour told her it was far too late for passengers to be travelling. She could have used this opportunity to run if she wanted to, or if she had any sense. Surely he must have known that. But she had broken too many promises already and would not make that mistake again. He emerged from the storm drain she had just climbed out of, with more speed and practise than she could ever hope to achieve, and once again took her by the hand and led her towards the station, being careful to stay in the shadows. She understood the need for them to wear black. In the daylight they might have looked like a couple in mourning but at night they were virtually invisible.

"But it's the middle of the night. The last train had gone already." She whispered, burning with curiosity.

"Yes, that would pose a problem if we were planning to travel that way." They came to a halt by a large freight train complete with a large collection of boxcars and wagons.

"You can't be serious." Christine said nervously "What if we get caught?"

"Were you expecting fine horses?" he sneered, the comment stung and she remembered how hurtful he could be if he lost his temper. She flinched at the comment, so he had been there that night...

"Forgive me." He whispered "But if we use a conventional route we'll be easily recognised and the authorities will be able to follow our trail, and if we wait until morning they'll have already found us."

She nodded in understanding. They were already on the run, she had gone with him willingly but other might not have seen it that way, so how could stowing away on a cargo train make things any worse?

* * *

"Andre, I have a feeling that our foray into the arts is at an end." Firman concluded. "I mean why us? Why out of all the theatres in the world did we have to pick the one with the crazed killer in it?"

"Because that bastard LeFevre neglected to tell us that little detail." His business partner answered "I wondered why he was so anxious to get away. And the worst thing he had to deal with was that thing dropping a battleship set on Carlotta during a performance of Il Trovatore. After this, a battleship would be a walk in the park, or even a nice weekend away in the country."

"Do you have any idea how much it costs to have a chandelier fixed?" said Firman angrily "I do, it costs more than my house."

"Better that than having it fall, friend." said Andre "We're lucky to be alive according to that lieutenantfellow."

"How did he do it, that's what I'd like to know? Who wakes up in the morning and decides to rig a two ton crystal chandelier so it'll fall on an audience full of wealthy patrons. And more to the point, how did he do it without anyone noticing?"

"I'd like to know how he made off with all our money without us noticing. I checked the safe, it was empty."

"What! Why haven't you reported this?"

"Because if the police know then we'll have to show them our accounts and if we show them our accounts they'll get suspicious and go on to discover the extent of our 'manager's perks' and you and I will go to prison for fraud!"

"Do you know something, Andre? I truly despise the Opera."

* * *

Madame Giry had been telling the truth when she said that the cellars were filled with traps. More than once now, the lieutenant and the handful of his subordinates he had brought with them had had to free the young viscount from a net or pull him out of the way of trap doors and falling objects. And still the lad insisted on going first. Perhaps he was braver than Mifroid gave him credit, but he was still an idiot. Still they had managed to follow the woman's directions without getting lost and finally came to view the large cavernous space on the other side of a portcullis.

"This must be the place." The boy cried "But how do we get in?"

"Are you certain? It doesn't look particularly lived in." said an officer sceptically.

"I'm fairly confident we're in the right place, Verlan, there's no need to grumble." said Mifroid "Now help me find the switch that opens this thing."

"How do you know it's a switch?" said Raoul.

"There's a punt in there, so I would imagine our friend comes through this entrance via boat. Therefore he would need a mechanism to open the gate remotely possibly by using the pole." He looked around the sides of the gate until he found what he had been searching for; the lever was hard to notice and was unfortunately out of their reach above their heads.

"Verlan, Moreau!" he called triumphantly "Give me a leg up."

* * *

The boxcar was filled with bundles of newspapers. That morning's copy of Le Gaulois would be transported to the northern towns early and would be replaced with bags of cement and other materials to be taken back to Paris. That was how things worked, the raw materials went into the city and manufactured things went out. You could literally set your watch to the schedule. And Erik had been watching their movements for weeks now. He had even tried the journey a few times. It was hardly the most luxurious way of travelling, she deserved something far better. But he could not let them be seen, not after what he had just done. He had sworn to himself that he would never kill again, but the man had struggled too much and he had been heavy handed and nervous. She'd leave him for certain if she knew of it if her reaction to the Bouquet incident was anything to go by. Was there to be even more lies and violence? He knew that she had only caught a small glimpse of his true colours, the distorted creature that lived within him.

It was freezing, even through their heavy travelling clothes, and the journey was loud and uncomfortable as they huddled in the corner. They would not be in Caen for several hours, then it would be morning and relatively safe for them to take a passenger train to Saint-Lo, they would have to travel the last thirty miles by road but he had already planned for that. With any luck they would reach their destination by early afternoon. Then the new life could really start. Then he could try to be what she wanted, what he wanted to be for her so desperately.

"You should try to sleep." he heard himself say "we still have a long way to go."

"A long way to go where?" she repeated, perhaps the reality of what was happening had hit for even the darkness he could tell she was on the verge of tears.

"Somewhere safe." Was all he could tell her, the truth was far too long a story and not one he wished to tell. Not yet.

"I'm so sorry Erik." Her voice was a tearful whisper. What was she referring to? Seeing his face? Betraying him with that boy? Was she about to tell him she had changed her mind?

"You don't have to apologise for anything." In truth he'd never been able to blame her. He had been the one who lied and started all of this. And any anger he did hold against her was mostly directed at that lover of hers. No he couldn't let his jealousy get in the way. She had chosen to go with him and he had promised himself a new start and that meant forgiving her for everything and not thinking about how she had let that insolent viscount steal her first kiss on the rooftop, and wore his ring around her neck. He had taken great satisfaction in selling the thing and hoped with a sick pettiness that it was a priceless deChagney heirloom.

The other ring, the one that belonged to him, felt heavy in his pocket. He had meant to give it to her back in his lair but had lost his nerve. She deserved a better proposal anyway, something quiet and romantic when she was no longer afraid of him.

"How can you say that when we have to run away because of my foolishness. I should never have let them get involved" she cried "Won't you miss your home?" so that was what she was apologising for.

"That was no home, it was a prison. You have no idea how much I've come to hate that place, Christine." He said trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

"I'm still at fault. We did not even get to finish your opera." she replied unhappily. "Now no one will know how it ends."

"What did you think of it? Did you enjoy the performance?" he said perhaps a little too eagerly. He didn't give a damn about what Paris thought of his work. They could ban it for all he cared and have it burned in the streets. Christine had once told him that she sang only for him, back when she still believed that he was a voice from heaven, and in a similar way he had found in recent years that every composition of his was intended for her. Her praise and gentle criticism had become his latest addiction.

"I thought it was a masterpiece." She whispered, in the dark he could almost imagine that she was blushing "I could listen to your music forever."

"And the ending? What did you think of that?"

"After the dress rehearsal, I couldn't stop crying. Everyone thought it was because I was afraid, they didn't understand how much the end had moved me."

The train moved on relentlessly as the remainder of their journey was spent in silence and eventually he noticed her eyes close and her breathing become even. He found it touching that she would trust him enough to sleep in his presence or perhaps she was just exhausted from crawling through the catacombs all night. Perhaps she wanted to be with him or perhaps she was only martyring herself to keep her fiancé and opera company safe from his torment, perhaps both.

* * *

As soon as they made it into the chamber the Viscount gave a horrified cry at the sight of what looked like a body in the corner. The poor fool looked as though he was going to be sick, and so did the other officers and for a horrible moment the lieutenant thought his theory had been wrong about the pair and the phantom truly did mean the young girl harm.

Moreau was the first to take the initiative and darted over to the limp form that was covered in a red curtain below a mirror, with only a few waves of dark hair flowing out beneath it. Hesitantly the officer pulled back the covering and gave a startled shout. Mifroid rushed to his side fearing the worst but was met with the blank stare of a life sized doll made from wood and wax.

"It's ok, it's only a model!" he called back to the others. "You three search the place; look for any signs of where they might have gone."

"What is this inspector? Some sort of sick joke?" Raoul deChagny said shakily peering over Mifroid's shoulder.

"He might have put it here as a distraction or to scare us." Mifroid agreed "Or perhaps...he just gets lonely."

"How can you say something like and not be utterly horrified?" his worried companion said.

"Because, Monsieur, my men and I have seen things far worse than a waxwork and if you had any sense you have stayed upstairs like I told you."

"Sir, perhaps you should come and look at this." He heard Verlan call from the other end of the cavern and Mifroid felt a chill run through him.

"Monsieur, I think it would be wise for you to stay here." He said turning to the Viscount before joining his colleague.

The other room was completely empty, its only contents was the tattered costume Mlle Daae had been wearing during the opera. The dress was torn is several places and sported an obscene bloodstain near the neckline. Yes it was probably best if the boy did not see this.

"Do you think we should assume the worst?" Verlan asked but Mifroid was already deep in though.

"You haven't moved this, have you?"

"No, sir."

"Very strange, what do you make of it?"

"Me sir? Well I don't like to say so but it looks as though Mlle Daae was...assaulted here at which point her captor murdered her and disposed of the body elsewhere."

"That's possible I suppose." Mifroid said, "However before you jump to conclusions, look at the floor. You see that there is no blood, so the stain on the dress was caused by a relatively minor wound. You will also notice that the dust is mostly undisturbed so it doesn't look as though there was a struggle."

"Just what are you implying, Sir?" the officer asked.

"Well you can't make a getaway in a flimsy theatre costume, can you?"

* * *

**A/N - After writing this I got the urge to draw Erik as Rudy the Psychedelic Monk from the Mighty Boosh going "Some call me the Angel of Music, others call me the Shadowdweller. I am sometimes called Peppercorn... by the Dutch..."**

**Also was that a John Cage reference? Erik is obviously ahead of his time. But if experimental arty music was around back then I'm sure he'd think it was all a load of bullcrap.**


	3. The Arrival

**The Arrival**

* * *

**Disclaimer –Not mine ect...**

**A/N – I'm ill, this makes me sad. There might be a bit of a delay for the next chapter as life will be getting a little bit busy, but I'll try and get one done in time for Christmas.**

**KatenHaanrath – Thanks I'm glad you liked the Raoul bits. And oh there will be arguments, oh yes, there will be arguments.**

**Nataliia – Lol, yes it was a bit of a Holy Grail reference. I couldn't resist.**

**Epic Insanity – Thanks, I enjoyed writing the Gendarme parts.**

**Laal ratty – Thank you. Glad you enjoyed it. I think Firman and Andre deserve their own little story, so I might write them a one shot at some point. For crack purposes of course.**

* * *

_A pale shaft of light slunk its way across the floor of the tiny garret they had shared, the motes swirling in the evening sun._

"_It's almost time, Christine." The figure on the bed told her, she knew this person was meant to be her father, but he was nothing like the kind, gentle and slightly eccentric man she had been raised by. In his place lay a shadow of his former self, emaciated and white, sallow cheeked and sunken eyed. He was little more than a living corpse._

"_Papa." She could only whisper, the lump in her throat seemed to choke the sound away. There were tears in her eyes, even though she had been well aware of what was about to happen. Her father had always believed in being honest with children, even about the harsher aspects of life, even about dying. She still hadn't been prepared for this though._

_Through the little oval window the sun disappeared behind the blackened chimneys and rooftops and the room darkened and seemed to grow even smaller, if that was even possible_

"_You must be brave, you must do what you know in your heart is right. Not just today but in all things." the skeletal creature told her "I want you to promise me."_

"_Please don't leave me, father. Not like this." The tears were flowing freely now and she could hardly see from them "Not like this."_

"_It's all right; everything is as it should be. As long as you remember me, and how much I love you, everything will be all right." he was having trouble talking, and she found that he was having to pause more and more as the rattling cough shook his body. "And when I am in heaven child, I will send an angel to protect you, so you'll know that I'll be there watching over you, and that I'll always love you. The angel of music, like the story."_

"_Father, no!" her sobs were getting louder now, and the room was quickly becoming engulfed in darkness._

"_You must make your choice, child." _

"_No!"_

"_Christine...please." she was aware that it was not her father's voice that she could hear anymore, had he strained it somehow, did voices change when you were close to death?_

"_NO! NO FATHER!"_

"Christine."

Her eyes snapped open as the freight train ground to a halt with a screech of the breaks. Looking around wildly in the darkness, it began to dawn on her where she was and what she had done. If she didn't know better she could have sworn that this was the dream and the distorted memory she had just woken from was the reality. If that was the case, would she be able to change anything? It had been Erik's voice she had heard trying to wake her, bringing her out of the nightmare, perhaps into a new one. It unsettled her how close he was, now that her eyes had become used to the dark she realised that he was right next to her. His presence and the raw memory of the dream made her almost break down again and made it hard to breathe.

She was talking in her sleep again. It was wrong of him to know just how frequent an occurrence that was. It had stemmed from a mild concern; his angel had been so troubled as a child, so haunted, so lost, so helpless. There had been something about her that had concerned him, so he had taken to watching her, during ballet practise, her long periods alone in the chapel or her room. He had wondered why she did not sleep with the other ballet rats in the dormitories and instead had been given her own room. But it soon became apparent that she had been placed there, not only because she was grieving her dead father but because her troubled nights were beginning to disrupt the other girls.

And so he had taken to watching over her, he hadn't been sure why. At that time it had nothing to do with the lustful thoughts he now felt for her, he had only seen a lost and lonely child with an angel's voice. Much like how he used to be in fact. Perhaps that had been the root of his over protectiveness, he did not wish for the world to destroy her as it had done him. And as he witnessed her nightmares in the flesh, the word 'father' was probably the most frequent to fall from her lips, followed by 'angel' her name for him. He had taken a secret pride in knowing that she dreamed of him. Still her grief worried him, as it bordered on obsession sometimes and matched his loneliness a little too closely.

He had thought that time would lessen her pain but as the years past she made little improvement. For all his concern in the beginning, he had selfishly enjoyed her grief, his place as her teacher and guardian and only true confidant. He had felt exhilarated each time he dared to enter her room while she slept, as though his very presence could ward off her demons. And once again he could not resist moving a little closer to her, silently longing to put his arm around her and let her head rest on his shoulder as she slept. She looked so fragile now, ever since he had returned to the Opera House during that ill fated Bal Masque he had noticed her drawn look and sickly pallor and before when he had helped her into the boxcar he couldn't help noticing how her bones protruded under her dress. But when the train began to slow and he shook her awake he had never seen her more terrified. Was waking up to him truly so horrible? Had he ever believed otherwise?

"Come, we must leave before we are discovered." He said simply.

It was just before dawn in the town he had brought her, and the sombre pair drifted like ghosts past its panorama with its gothic churches and its walled medieval fortress. And with the darkness the whole commune lay sleeping, awaiting a new day. In spite of her warm clothes the February winds cut through the wool of her coat. It was not as cold as that night in graveyard, although perhaps it had been the dread in her heart that had chilled her so that night.

"Erik, where are we?" she asked again, feeling exhausted and frustrated at being kept in the dark. There were so many unanswered questions.

"We're in Caen, but only for a short a while."

Caen? They were in Calvados? So they had been heading north all that time. Were they going to continue on to Cherbourg and attempt to cross the channel somehow? It seemed to make sense if they were being followed. They came to station entrance, one of the only places that was already open. It was only a small building with three platforms and one rather sleepy looking man in the ticket office. The clock read that it was half past five. The timetable on the wall announced that the first train of the day would arrive in have an hour.

"Perhaps I should buy our tickets." she said thoughtfully "Then perhaps we won't be so noticeable." The news of her disappearance might not have been widely known yet, but once the papers printed it they would probably find it harder to keep their trail a secret.

He looked surprised for a moment, perhaps even a little suspicious but eventually nodded and handed her the money for two singles in first class. To her surprise she was instructed to buy them for Saint-Lo and not to the coast as she had previously guessed. And to keep her veil down at all costs.

As she paid for the tickets the elderly man in the booth gave her a concerned glance thanks to her funeral clothes and her tear stained face through the lace of her dark veil.

"Your ticket Madame?" he said. "I hope you do not think me rude for asking what has you looking so upset. And why you would be travelling at this ungodly hour."

"Forgive me sir." She said softly, making up a lie on the spot "But yesterday we received news of my poor father in law's passing and we must go to Saint-Lo at once to make the necessary arrangements." She looked back nervously at Erik's hooded figure, in the half light his face was entirely concealed "My...husband would normally take care of things like this but alas, he is inconsolable."

"Well it seems he's lucky to have a wife such as yourself. You both have my condolences." The man said, looking a little embarrassed at having brought it up at all.

She nodded with a solemn thank you and left to follow her 'husband' onto the platform.

They sat inside the first class carriage in an awkward silence, and if Erik had heard the lie she had just told he certainly didn't let on. They sat opposite one another and watched the sun rise through the dirty window over the town and bathing it in gold, providing a small relief from the cold. She realised that she had never truly seen her angel in the daylight before. For even when they had been outside in the cemetery, the winter days were so short that it was already dark and so overcast that sunlight would not have made much difference. As she gazed across at him, his unmasked side in profile as he looked out the window made him almost look like any other man, if it were not so striking. There was something so dangerous about his eyes, yet so clear as though they could see into her soul. The rest of his features were equally strange, like a collection of oddities combined to make something truly unique. She suddenly felt the strong desire to see what lay beneath the mask again. The first time had been so brief that she barely caught a glimpse, and she could not decide if it was the face that had scared her or his sudden, intense anger at her seeing him.

He suddenly met her gaze as though he had sensed her staring at him and she lowered her eyes, embarrassed that she had been caught. He probably didn't appreciate being gawked at.

* * *

She was staring at him. It was irrational and he knew it, but years of being stared at had left him wary and self-conscious under her gaze and he instinctively turned his face to the window so that the mask was hidden at least. He had not let anyone look at him for over five years until now, not even his messenger, Madame Giry, had seen him in the flesh since he was a child. He had returned to Paris a broken man, unhinged and almost dead. Something in him had snapped back then and he had grown weary of the world. He had been hiding in the darkness waiting for death until he heard her voice.

"Why did you lie like that?" he asked suddenly, becoming tired of the silence and the unnerving feeling of her eyes on him. She flinched a little; as though she expected to be scolded.

"I'm sorry." She replied shakily. "I should not have spoken."

"On the contrary I thought you were rather convincing, your acting lessons must be proving successful. But then you always were a natural at it." He said coldly, she was avoiding his questions again. The train began to move and slowly accelerate away from the station. "I can't help but wonder why you're here. It seemed as though you and your lover had a unique opportunity to be rid of me once and for all. Two opportunities in fact, and yet you refused to take either of them." A flash of anger passed across her face, and it seemed as though he had hit a nerve.

"Is that what you thought I wanted?" she replied in a choked whisper, she looked like she had been fighting back tears all morning but one escaped this time. Why did he always do this? He wanted her attention so desperately yet whenever it looked as though she might break down one of his self imposed barriers he pushed her away mercilessly.

"How can I know what you want when you don't even know yourself?" he growled.

"And how am I meant to know when all you've ever done is lie to me?" she countered, the tears were falling freely now and they made him feel wretched. "I can forgive you for not wanting to reveal your identity. But did you have to assume another which was so...personal to me?" She watched the landscape as it blurred past through the window.

"I only wished to help you, Christine." He told her earnestly, that much had been true in the beginning. She had been so melancholy and the angel story had been the only thing that seemed to make her smile, so when she had assumed that he was the angel in question, he didn't have to the heart to correct her and tell her the horrible truth. "Everything I have done has been for you. And I may be more demon than angel but I am still the one you confided in all those years, that hasn't changed. We could rebuild that friendship, if you'd only allow it."

"You just disappeared, Erik. I didn't know what to do. I thought you hated me." She cried "I thought you were a dream, he let me believe you were just a dream." She was obviously talking about the viscount, and he felt the irresistible urge to march straight back to Paris and strangle the boy with his own cravat.

"He did what?"

"I thought he would understand, but he didn't believe me at all. He bought me a doctor, Erik."

He felt as though he was going to be sick. All that time he had been wallowing in his own self pity and plotting to snatch her away forever as a punishment for her betrayal, he had been the one to betray her. He had broken her dreams and abandoned her in one fell swoop. No wonder she had gone to the boy for help, he must have seemed like the only dependable thing around. And instead of protecting her like he heard him promise the ignorant fool had merely dismissed her as mad and sent her to the nearest charlatan physician. He should never have left. If he had only talked to her, explained things, then perhaps none of this would have happened.

"Erik? Are you all right?"

He sighed and handed her his handkerchief although he felt on the verge of crying himself. He would do so in front of her though, not again.

"Forgive me, I was out of line. We clearly have a lot to discuss, but this is not the place for it and we will be arriving in Saint-Lo soon."

"How much farther must we go?" she asked.

"Only a short way, and then you will be able to rest properly without any bad dreams."

"How did you know it was a bad dream?"

"You were calling for your father in your sleep, you seemed rather distressed."

"You are certain that is all I called out?" she said, looking around worriedly as though some invisible spy was watching them. He had hoped that she would describe her dream to him like she used to, but it was too soon for that. He had loved hearing about her dreams, especially when they were about him. It had made him feel powerful to know such intimate details about her. As her angel he had been her secret keeper, her confessional.

"Yes I'm certain."

* * *

The conversation on the train had shaken her somewhat. She had hoped that they would be able to discuss things but not so soon and not when his temper was so unpredictable, it had made her give away more than she had wanted. It had been foolish of her to believe that they could simply talk things over and return home and everything would be all right. Wherever they were going, it was unlikely that she would be able to return to Paris. She had stood up for herself though and that was more than she could ever have hoped for. Once they had reached the next town and stepped out of the carriage they had made their way towards the edge of town. It was nearly eight o'clock on market day and their mourning clothes only earned them a few sympathetic glances. They stopped once more to buy some bread and other supplies, which she once again offered to buy. They eventually reached a stable on the outskirts of the town and Christine noticed a familiar head peering at her over the stall.

"César!" she cried reaching out to stroke the animal's nose "I had wondered what had become of you." The dark horse for all his fearsome looks had probably been the gentlest creature in the whole opera house and he nuzzled her hand affectionately while her companion paid the groom to prepare a cart for them. It seemed logical for the horse to be here; Erik must have used him to move his belongings out of the Opera and planned ahead so that they would have transport once the terrain became more remote.

The last leg of the journey was long and cold, but the beauty of the country landscape more than made up for the chill in the air. The sky had grown cloudy and Christine hopes that it would stay dry until they reached their destination. They kept to the smaller roads and were met with small, picturesque fields surrounded by stone walls and little farm houses made of the same grey stone with slate roofs and whitewashed shutters. It all seemed a little gloomy now, but she could imagine a summer in a place such as this could be wondrously beautiful. The exhaustion of the previous night eventually caught up with her and she found herself nodding occasionally before suddenly waking and finding that they had reached somewhere entirely different to where they had been before. She spent the rest of the journey in that strange place between waking and sleeping until she felt the wheels beneath her come to a halt and smelled the salt in the air.

* * *

Mifroid did not get back to headquarters until dawn, spending the night in the Opera house cellars had made his arthritis play up and he felt his fingers protest as he unlocked his front door. It was no fun getting old. He sighed heavily. The events that had gone into the small hours of the morning had not been pleasant. Clearly his theories regarding Christine Daae had not gone down well with her fiancé and one thing had led to another. He and the viscount had had words. Not all of them were civil. He would not be surprised if the little pipsqueak made a complaint about him. He hoped that wasn't the case, he had become rather fascinated by the case at hand. It wasn't often that he found a criminal that could outwit him. After all that was what this Phantom character was, a criminal, there was no sense in romanticising it, a brilliant criminal but a criminal nonetheless. The man was a puzzle, and Mifroid was obsessed with puzzles. It was one of his many eccentricities, and he would spend his evenings solving anything from word-games to calculus problems, and once he started something he would not be able to stop until it was solved. After the colossal dead end they had reached that night he could only read over the statements that had been taken, instead of attempting to sleep like everyone else.

After they had found the hidden exit behind the mirror, he had sent orders for patrols to take place around all the main stations and roads out of the city, but knew in his heart that it probably wouldn't work. Either they had left the city already or they were laying low somewhere until all this blew over. De Chagny had insisted that they follow the hidden tunnel but even after investigating a few yards of it, it became clear that not only was the route part of a labyrinth of tunnels but was prone to flooding and cave-ins and all sorts of other hazards. A full search would take time and planning and money, luckily the third seemed to be under control as the young viscount seemed to have unlimited funds at his disposal. That very morning he had already gone to all the newspapers with an add calling for any information. Mifroid had shrugged at that idea. It could potentially help them, but they could also end up with a lot of false leads. The public was annoying like that. And what sort of description was he supposed to give of a man that kept his face hidden?

* * *

For a moment, one brief precious moment, she was reminded of the house in Perros. The salty wind brought back a flood of memories, of a more innocent time where there was no death and love was simpler. She and her father would stay up late by the fire and he would teach her about music, and philosophy, history, politics, anything that would take their fancy. Or he would tell her stories, some of them from books and some he just made up as he went along. She had liked those ones best of all. Perhaps one day she would write them all down.

She opened her eyes grudgingly and the daydream was over, he was still gone and no amount of clinging to the past would bring him back. Raoul could not bring him back, although it had been nice to remember. She had always been fond of him, but years of boarding schools and high society had changed him somewhat and she sometimes felt as though they were from completely different worlds. But there was still a glimmer of the kind hearted boy she had once played with on the beach and she had clung to what seemed the only familiar thing in a constantly changing world. She had been so frightened, the angel she had put so much blind faith in was not an angel, and had abandoned her and started harassing the opera company. Father had promised that when he was in heaven he would send the Angel of Music. He had promised. But there was no angel, and if there was no angel, then that meant that he had not made it into heaven...

The town they had arrived in was part of a small natural harbour and the tide had come right in and flooded the salt marshes that lay beyond the little grey houses, with their neat stone walls and their slate roofs. From their spot on the top of a small hill she could see other towns in the distance across the river estuary and fishing boats upon the murky water that reflected the cloudy sky. The weather that had been cold and bright inland had become colder and overcast, threatening rain. A few hundred yards away was a little church with a graveyard that was modest but well cared for. And on at the edge of the village she could see the ruins of a great tower in a black stone, only two of its walls standing as though the thing had been cut diagonally down the middle. Spiral staircases leading to nowhere could be seen in the brickwork and the battlements were nothing but a mass of ivy and bird's nests.

There was a figure down there in the ruins of the keep. A man in a black coat similar to her own, and for a horrible moment it seemed as though he was looking right at them. Perhaps she was only imagining things, the trauma of the night before and the exhausting journey had left her skittish and paranoid. The brief hours of sleep that she had managed had only left her feeling more drained and achy from sleeping in a sitting position in the cold. Still it was the most she'd slept for several days as her childhood insomnia had returned with a vengeance once her angel had disappeared. It had not been a good off season.

As they reached the house the reality of what she'd done began to hit her and she only hoped that her rash decision had not made things worse. The thought that they might be pursued had been her main concern until now, although the fear still lurked in the back of her mind. Now the much more daunting question plagued her, what now? Did he truly expect her to live with him forever in this strange little town? And as what, as his pupil, as his wife? All sorts of possibilities ran through her mind. Could she live with someone like him, and be content? His temper suggested otherwise. Running away with the Phantom of the Opera was an incredibly foolish thing to do, and she knew it. She also knew that even if he killed a thousand men, his music would somehow be able to redeem him, and that was why she could not change her mind.

The house certainly was interesting. Once the tall wooden gates were opened the building, which had been almost completely concealed behind tall stone walls and evergreens still dusted with frost from the morning. The building was in the same stone as the rest of the town and seemed newer than the other houses but designed to be in keeping with the more medieval architecture of the castle ruins. The front door was made of heavy oak and stood beneath a graceful Gothic archway. There was a small courtyard with its own barn and its own well, understandable since they were quite far away from the rest of the village. Like the castle, this building also had a tower which attached itself to the corner of the house like a limpet and overlooked the sea, although this one looked as though it had been added purely for decorative effect and not as a Norman stronghold.

As she climbed down from the seat of the cart Erik quickly locked the gate behind them and handed her the key to the front door and the bundle of supplies they had bought, silently going off to tend to Cesar. The gesture was so ordinary that it seemed almost bizarre. She had never seen him do anything that could be considered an everyday activity until today, unless you counted rowing a gondola, but that was really only an everyday activity in Venice and didn't count. The heavy clouds that had been threatening rain for the past hour began drizzle and Christine shivered a little as she felt the freezing drops on her cheeks, she wished that she was only shivering from the cold. But somehow she managed to muster the strength to open the front door.

* * *

"What do you mean deChagny's called in La Sûreté?" Mifroid barked at Verlan across his desk. "Hasn't he heard of too many cooks spoiling the broth?"

"Well technically this sort of thing is more their area, sir. And you did accuse the man's fiancé of being an accomplice to murder, some people don't like that." His long suffering colleague replied.

"Just what are you trying to tell me, Verlan?" he'd been pouring over the statements from the previous evening for so long that his eyes hurt.

"I'm trying to tell you that we've been...relieved of our duty in a manner of speaking. You see the boy's parents didn't appreciate having their son's affairs splashed all over the front page and only agreed to help his little search party if he used a less obvious law enforcement body, and refrain from getting the papers involved of course."

"I was afraid of that. So we were just the muscle hired to scare away some ghosts."Mifroid said darkly. "Why do we have to have multiple police forces anyway, it's idiotic. Perhaps we should start another organisation to police the police when they intrude on each other's territories."

"Ah but then who would police the police that police the police?"

"You're not funny."

"And you're bitter, lieutenant."

"Preposterous."

"Because La Sûreté turned you down when you wanted to join them."

"This has got nothing to do with that!"

"Because you punched Chief Inspector Farge."

"I didn't know it was him. How was I supposed to know he was undercover?" Wait, undercover! That was it! He would have to thank his subordinate later for giving him the idea.

"Either way all we can do now is put the word out and hope for the best." Verlan sighed, and Mifroid suspected that had become as attached to this case as he had. "And they'll need copies of all the statements we took." Mifroid nodded sullenly, and handed the pile of papers over. Except one, the very important one. The one marked Antoinette Giry. Bloody Sûreté.

* * *

The front door creaked open as Christine timidly crept inside, her mind swimming with questions. So this was Erik's house? Why did he own a house if he wasn't going to live in it? She felt as though she was intruding somehow into a private space, but the whole idea was stupid since he had brought her here and given her the key to the door. She found herself in a long hallway that ran down the middle of the building and also contained the staircase everything was dark as the shutters had been closed and the hall had a neglected damp smell to it. Not a soul had been here for several weeks. There were four doors downstairs and Christine quickly found the kitchen and noticed that it overlooked a back garden once she opened the shutters. She couldn't help smiling at how nice it looked; the range had been cleaned up and looked brand new and the room was bright and spacious now that she had let the daylight in, complete with a pantry and small scullery near the back door. She hadn't cooked anything in years, not since her father had died, and even longer that she'd made anything more interesting than clear broth once he became too ill to support them financially. She almost liked the idea of keeping a house again. A house that was currently very cold and dark from being empty for so long. Christine resolved to at least make herself a little useful and easily found some wood and kindling in a basket by the door. Erik had certainly planned ahead for outside there was a woodpile large enough to see them through until spring.

The fact that he had a house like this and still chose to live beneath the opera house was a complete mystery for her. The thought of him owning a house at all seemed alien in itself. At first she had thought that his face had made him feel the need to remove himself from society, but perhaps he'd had a life before all this, perhaps there had been time when he had been like other men.

* * *

He came in through the back door to find her poking at a fire in the range. She was still wearing her coat and gloves, her hat had been unpinned and left on the kitchen table along with the food, leaving her dark hair cascading messily down her back. The scene surprised him, for some reason he had never imagined her doing anything domestic. He had always assumed that he would take care of everything and look after her. She had always struck him as helpless and alone, he liked to imagine that she needed him and it stung a little to think that she probably didn't. But of course, she'd practically been her father's nurse for two years; of course she would know how to light a fire. He felt like an idiot just standing there as she turned to look up at him.

"I thought I should warm the room up a little." She said a little sheepishly.

"Are you hungry?"

"Not really." He couldn't help but agree with her on that one. His appetite was not exactly healthy and neither was hers for that matter. But he would not let her get ill again.

"I know you're not but you must eat." He said.

"I don't think I can." She replied bluntly, and he decided not to press the subject. She had been doing so well before her debut, and he couldn't help but feel responsible for her drawn look and slightly too delicate frame.

"Perhaps later then. Would you like to see the rest of the house?" he asked. He'd put a lot of work into making the old place look nice for her and found himself eager to show it off, strangely nervous about her reaction. It was only a few bits of wallpaper and furniture, but like his music Christine was the only critic whose opinion mattered to him.

She nodded and he proceeded to show her the dining room with its large oak table and matching chairs. The living room which he had doubled up as the music room and contained the old grand piano that he'd tuned and restored to its former glory. It was nothing compared to the organ but there was no room for an instrument that size in the house, and dismantling it and having it transported would have been too conspicuous. That didn't mean he wouldn't miss it though, but if it meant that he could be with Christine he'd had sacrificed a million organs. The room also contained the rest of his collection of instruments that had been small enough to bring up from the cellars. Some had been bought and some had been lying broken in the rehearsal rooms for years before he lovingly restored them and some had been acquired during his travels. He couldn't help but feel a little swell of excitement at how she examined each one, smiling nostalgically at the violins. If she could learn to trust him they would be able to write masterpieces together and thought made him almost delirious with joy. His music combined with her voice, there would be no equal and perhaps her music as well, if she showed an interest. He had every confidence that she would be able to. Then perhaps a creative partnership could grow into something deeper, something more than the relationship between a teacher and his student. But it was too soon to think of that, he had earn her forgiveness first, and then her trust. They had hurt each other beyond compare but the fact that she was here at all meant there was still hope.

"Do you know how to play all of these?" she asked, lifting up a long thin instrument and eyeing it curiously "I don't think even I've seen half of these before."

"Yes, I've played all of them at one time or another. And that's a kanmancheh, it's a Persian instrument." He replied.

"You've been to Persia?" she said, eyes widening with surprise. Did she think he'd always lived in the bowels of the opera house?

"Yes, but that was a long time ago." He replied and refused to make any further comment on it, that was a time he truly did not wish to reminisce about. "Come, I'll show you the library."

* * *

Christine's mind reeled at his answer, she wanted to ask a million more questions but there was a look in his eyes that made her stop in her tracks and silently put the strange stringed instrument back on the shelf where she's found it and followed him through to the library. So he owned a house and he had been to Persia. What other secrets had he been hiding from her?

The library wasn't as large as the front room, or perhaps it was the same size but the sheer amount of books and papers made it seem smaller. It was filled from floor to ceiling book, some that she recognised, some that she's never heard of and some that were in different languages entirely. Some were almost certainly in Arabic, others in English, Italian and she could have sworn that there were a couple in Chinese on the top shelf. Could he understand them all? She knew he was a genius, that much was apparent from his music, but this was getting ridiculous. Her father had been a genius, Erik was something else entirely.

After the library he took her upstairs where he only showed her three of the four rooms. The forth she assumed was his bedroom, of which the thought alone left her nervous and grateful that the door had remained firmly locked. There was one bathroom, a fairly empty guest bedroom, and why wouldn't it be empty, who on earth would want to stay the night with them?

"This is your room." He odd companion announced looking oddly nervous as he opened the last door. "I thought you might like the view."

She couldn't hold back a gasp as she stepped into the room. Unlike the dark and slightly oriental look of the rest of the house, her room was light and airy and decorated in a collection of whites and blues with a circular alcove in the corner which she realised must have been the inside of the tower and she could see for miles through its large window, not only the town but the whole harbour. All the furniture had been stained white like driftwood and included a large wardrobe and chest of drawers, a vanity and a small desk in the tower complete with writing paper and pens and a small brass telescope on a stand. The bed was made of brass with white linens and a cheerful blue quilt concealed behind while gauzy bed curtains. There were collections of shells and pebbles on the windowsill. She couldn't deny that it was beautiful and a lot of thought had been put into it, right down to her favourite colour. She didn't know how to feel about it.

"Erik, I think I could eat something after all." She said quietly to the dark figure in the doorway.

Once he had left she closed the door behind her and sat by the window, feeling a little overwhelmed. Not just by the room but by everything that happened. For in less than a day she had left her fiancé and everyone she knew to follow a man she barely knew but couldn't live without, a man who terrified her and fascinated her in equal measure. Below her she thought she caught a glimpse of the man in the dark coat again walking up the road they had just travelled, from the corner of her eye, but when she turned to look there was no one there. Perhaps she was only imagining things.

She absentmindedly looked through the drawers of the vanity and noticed they contained all the powders and face creams, soaps and hair oils that she had used in Paris, which struck her as a little odd. He must have gone through her things to find out what she liked, which deeply unsettled her but coming from the man who could have verily easily watched her change from behind her mirror, it could have been a lot worse. It was a lot worse, she realised when she opened the wardrobe to find it full of clothes. He had literally thought of everything, from day to day wear to outdoor dresses and even a few formal looking ones as well as a collection of undergarments and nightgowns in the chest of drawers. She could only hope that he'd taken her measurements from the wardrobe mistress's records and not from taking her underwear when she was away from her room. Still the selection of outfits looked well made and impeccably tasteful, unlike the pink monstrosity Raoul had presented her with on the night of the masquerade. She had felt like a ball of candy floss in it. She felt unclean from sleeping in her clothes and travelling all morning, and the hem of her skirts were probably filthy from their little adventure in the sewers. So she filled a bowl of water in the bathroom began to quickly wash and change for dinner, pausing for a moment to examine the cut on her back.

* * *

She had asked for food. That meant that she wasn't miserable at least. And she had seemed pleased by the room. He couldn't help feeling happy about that. He wanted her to be comfortable with him after all, so he had chosen the nicest bedroom for her and decorated in a way that he thought she would like. Something simple and cheerful with elements of the ocean. He knew that she liked the sea that was why this place had struck him as being perfect. The kitchen was already beginning to warm up and the light outside was beginning to fade into a murky sunset behind the heavy veil of the rainclouds. After he had finished cutting the bread and slicing the ham and cheese they had bought he lit a paraffin lamp so they would not have to eat in the gloom. She came downstairs and sat at the table. He noticed that she had changed into a more comfortable dress, the green one.

"Did you find everything you need?" he asked.

"Yes, thank you." She whispered. "Only I was wondering if you had any alcohol." He gave her a confused look.

"I have some wine in the pantry if that's what you mean."

"I meant for the cut, Erik, I thought I felt a splinter in it." Of course, she had been hurt, how could he have forgotten. He scrambled out of his seat to fetch the bottle of iodine solution and a pair of tweezers from the medicine cabinet feeling terrible for making her travel halfway across the country while she was in pain.

"Forgive me, I should have realised." He said, trying to sound composed but the way she was blushing was so beautiful that it was incredibly difficult.

"C-could you do it, please. I can't reach it."

He had to remember to keep breathing as she shyly pushed the shoulder of her gown and chemise down to reveal the creamy expanse of pale skin that had seemed so enticing the night before. It was only a patch of shoulder and a ridge of spine, with the red wound curving across it like a crooked grin. He couldn't help running a finger over it in a soft caress, making her flinched away from him slightly and he withdrew his hand as if he had been burned. He wanted to do more than just touch her. He wanted to kiss the wound until the mark disappeared along with every square inch of her skin. But he had to stop thinking of such things; she would never let him do that and he would only frighten her away if he tried. Fighting with all his strength to keep his degenerate mind under control, he checked the cut for any signs of infection, thankfully finding only one splinter of wood under her skin. He cleaned the wound carefully and applied the awful brown liquid and if it stung she didn't make a sound, she only shivered under his hands.

"Let me know if it gets worse." He said once he was finished and set the plate of food in front of her.

They ate in silence, neither of them managing more than a few mouthfuls. Neither of them were exactly regular eaters, but perhaps that would change from now on. Perhaps they could be a good influence on each other and he would stop looking so skeletal and she would regain her rosy colouring. It was a nice thought, but it would be far from easy.

* * *

His hands had been cold, and the sting of the antiseptic was nothing compared to the way his touch burned her skin. She had been so frightened, but if she didn't let him the wound might have gotten worse. She hated how his touch made her feel, how it burned, how it brought back memories of that first night when anything seemed possible and how her heart felt as though it might explode as they sang onstage together for the first and probably for the last time. It was beyond her understanding and far too much for her to deal with. And before she knew it, it was all over and she found that her appetite had disappeared entirely.

"I brought you something." He said after what felt like hours and pulled something small from his breast pocket and placed it on the table in front of her. It was the photograph of her father from the chapel, minus the frame. It had been the only image she'd had of him taken on his wedding day back when he was young and healthy and prosperous. There had been another picture once, from the same day, with him and her mother whose face she barely remembered. Surprisingly she had been in the photo as well, and she had always felt a strange embarrassment at the realisation that her parents had married after she was born. Her father had always argued that they hadn't needed a piece of paper to prove how much they loved each other, one only needed to look at them. They had only married later on to appease her grandparents, who had been of stern and sober Lutheran stock.

The thought of a man and woman living together before they were married made her blush. Wasn't she doing the exact same thing? No, this was different, but it wouldn't be seen that way. People would talk. What people? The village looked almost deserted and they weren't in Paris any longer. The house was so cut off no one would even know they were there. Anything could happen behind its walls, and the thought frightened her. She gazed at the black and white face that stared back at her blankly off the paper, then up at the face of her teacher. She had trusted them both so unconditionally and they had both lied and taken a small part of her soul with them. They were all liars; even Mme Gira had concealed the truth from her. Raoul had not even stood a chance, she had been so wary by then, so guarded. But it had been nice to pretend, even if it was only for a little while, that her childhood friend could make everything all right again. It had only been an impossible dream, and perhaps that was why she could never reply when he told her he loved her. How very pathetic.

"Erik? Why have you brought us here?" she asked suddenly, growing tired of pushing her food around her plate and feeling unable to continue this chilly evening without asking the question that had been plaguing her throughout the whole journey. He looked up at her, his expression unreadable.

"I suppose I wanted to try for a normal life, one last time, and I wanted you to share it with me." Was that hope she had seen flicker in his eyes "Why did you come with me?"

She paused, she couldn't even begin to explain why, and she didn't even know herself.

"Because I couldn't let them hurt you. I just couldn't go through with it." There was a heavy silence in the room. That clearly hadn't been the answer he had been hoping for.

"Liar, you knew what I could have done that night; you only came quietly to save your precious viscount. Well I hope your sacrifice was worth it, mademoiselle." He sounded eerily calm and that frightened her more than his rages ever could.

"I'm not lying." She cried, she was on the verge of tears again, but although she wasn't going to admit it that had been her other reason.

"So you can break a man's soul in two, but you can't come back and finish the job? Is that it?" he yelled suddenly making cower before him like a frightened child. She felt sick. He couldn't have known could he? "You could have been free so easily, it would've almost been an act of mercy." Something snapped inside her then, and all the fear and anguish and anger she had been holding inside of her for god knew how long poured forth as she gripped the empty glass water jug in between them and threw it against the wall behind him with a scream, the glass smashing loudly into a hundred pieces.

* * *

She acted so quickly and so impulsively that he barely had time to register what was going on. Christine, his Christine who had never once raised her voice to anyone in the whole time that he'd known her, was literally screaming at him. Screaming "No." He was vaguely aware of something whizzing past his head and smashing behind him. He'd pushed her far it seemed. But why? He was fairly sure he'd accused her of worse in the past and called her things that were far more offensive. He hated doing so, hated the way his temper seemed to veer beyond his control. He knew he could never allow himself to harm her. The thought alone made him seize up with disgust. But his emotions for her had become so strong that his outbursts were beginning to worry him and nothing set him off faster than the knowledge that she'd only spared his life out of pity.

He could only stare at her in disbelief, his anger replaced momentarily with shock as she fled from the kitchen and through the darkened hallway. He didn't move until he heard her door slam upstairs. What had he done? Had he been too hard on her or had he merely touched a nerve. He couldn't help noticing how her expression had changed when he had given her the photograph. Had she been thinking of her father then? He remembered a time when merely mentioning the man had brought on fits of tears. But that been years ago when she was a child. Not that she was much more than a child now, a fact that he could not allow himself to forget. She was so much younger than him; she did not deserve his cruelty. She did not deserve any of this. He had upset her earlier that day when he said she should have let that boy end him in the grave yard. Was it the idea of death in general that upset her so much, or was it his death? Or did it run deeper than that. He just didn't know and it frustrated him. He felt as though he knew her inside and out, as his ill gotten trust had lead her to reveal her innermost secrets to him, her wishes, her childish fantasies, her dreams. There were a few things that she had refused to talk about during those years and almost all of them involved the day of her father's passing. Oh he knew all about her childhood, the summer they had spent by the sea to restore his health. He knew about his relapse and their close brush with destitution, and he knew that Christine had nursed him singlehandedly during his final months. But she had never told him about his final days and out of respect for her feelings he had never asked. Perhaps he would have to ask now, but the thought made him nervous. For knew the trauma of losing a parent ran deeper than any other.

He considered going to her immediately and begging for her forgiveness but decided against it. They were both tired and on edge and it would do better to let her rest and calm down before he approached the subject. He needed rest as well, but it was more than he could hope for. A man who had committed atrocities like he had should never expect to sleep well at night. A man who had taken so many lives he no longer felt anything but a cold detachment, a man who had deceived and tried to seduce an innocent young girl and lured her down to his kingdom. He had not been able go through with what he had been planning that night. He had wanted to, oh god he had wanted it more than anything. But he knew that he could not defile an angel such as her. He deserved to be hung by the neck just for thinking about it, and he should have left her well alone. And for a while he thought he could, just help her silently from the shadows until her career took off and she was offered better contracts from better theatres. That had not gone according to plan either, and he had let his jealousy get the better of him. He had let his anger overcome him, he had killed, he had defiled her father's memory, he had let the beast take hold, he had slipped into the darkness. He truly was a monster to bring her here.

* * *

"Lieutenant! For the sake of your career and your family, I can't let you do this! This is most unorthodox!" Verlan shouted in exasperation as he blocked the doorway to the office and his superior, now in his civilian clothes collected his papers together in his leather case and reached for his bowler hat and scarf.

"For Pete's sake, I'm only going to ask her a few questions, not murder her and wear her skin like a bonnet. Now that's unorthodox. Did I ever tell about that case, lad?"

"Yes, several times. Every time we invite you to dinner in fact. Please stop telling it, it gives my wife nightmares." The younger man replied, his reddish moustache twitching slightly with worry.

"It's a great story isn't it? Now will you please step aside so I can keep my appointment with this rather important witness?"

"I can't do that sir. Even the new recruits know that vigilantism and going absent without leave are a sure-fire way of getting yourself dismissed."

"Oh piffle. I think I'm owed a few days leave at least. You'll cover for me, won't you? Say I was henpecked into taking Mme Mifroid and the girls to the seaside or something."

"In February?" Verlan said sceptically.

"Well you make it up then." Mifroid grumbled pulling his gloves on. "And if it puts your mind at ease, you have my word that I won't do anything rash. I'll just track them down and alert the proper authorities the first chance I get." His colleague raised a ginger eyebrow. "Come on, don't you trust me?"

"No."

"Oh come on!" Mifroid bellowed "I need to do this, you know what happens when these things get left open, Verlan, and La Sûreté could take months to solve this. I can't wait that long and these papers are in the wrong order."

"All right all right. I'll cover for you. Just don't build a yurt out of the paperwork again." Verlan stepped aside muttering something that sounded suspiciously like 'crazy old bastard.' Mifroid didn't have time to scold him though; he had an informant to talk to. The ballet mistress knew more than she was letting on. She had only told them of her employment as the Phantom's messenger, and her knowledge that he lived in the cellars. But there had to be more to it than that. There just had to be.

* * *

Erik had finished sweeping up the glass shards from the flagstones when the alarm sounded. Being a rather paranoid sort he had taken the measure of planting various trip wires on the land around the property and used the servants' bells in the kitchen as a makeshift alert system, similar to the ones he had built in tunnels. Someone was near the house, and was heading northwards towards them. They couldn't have been followed so quickly, that just wasn't possible. He had thought travelling through the night would have made them harder to find. Perhaps it was someone from the village, taking an evening walk. That was always a possibility. Or maybe someone had seen them arrive and was poking their nose where it wasn't wanted. He couldn't take that risk and protecting Christine was his main priority.

He grabbed his cloak and slipped out silently through the back door to find the intruder. He noticed that a light glowed from Christine's bedroom and hoped that she wouldn't see him in the shadows below her window. The tower had looked like something out of one of her stories, so naturally he had to give it to her. He had fantasised a few times about serenading her from the garden while she leaned wistfully out her window. But now he would probably get more glassware thrown at him if she caught him lurking there, and there were more important tasks at hand.

All was quiet on the lane that led up the hill as he stalked through the darkness like a silent predator. The intruder was concealed in the shadows, moving steadily towards the house, unaware of his presence, the only sound was the soft crunch beneath the strangers footsteps as he trod upon the frosty grass. It was a man, but that all he could tell at this point. And he was wearing a dark coat of some sort. He clutched the rope in his hands; it could be over so easily, just a flick of the wrist and this obstacle would be gone. He couldn't though, this wasn't the city, people would notice he was missing and others would come to investigate. And what would Christine think of him if she saw him now. He would drive her away for certain if he killed again. He would have to take another approach. He wasn't called a ghost for nothing and country people were known to be a suspicious lot, and sailors were even worse. If the villagers thought the house was haunted, then perhaps they would keep their distance and leave them in peace.

His mind made up he approached the man, thinking of the best way to strike. He could swoop down from a tree perhaps or emerge from the mist. Would his mask be enough or should he unleash the full horror of his face. He began to sing softly. The illusion was always better when he sang and his unearthly voice echoed around his victim from all sides. The stranger looked hesitant but foolishly carried on. His voice became louder, toying with the poor individual who was becoming clearer as he came near. He was old; his hair was thick and a brilliant white. He stepped out from his hiding spot for the final assault but stopped dead in his tracks as he came face to face with a very familiar figure. There weren't many things that could make the Phantom turn pale but this was one of them.

"Erik?" the elderly man blinked at him in disbelief.

"Father?"


	4. An Unexpected Visitor

**An Unexpected Visitor**

* * *

_He stepped out from his hiding spot for the final assault but stopped dead in his tracks as he came face to face with a very familiar figure. There weren't many things that could make the Phantom turn pale but this was one of them._

"_Erik?" the elderly man blinked at him in disbelief._

"_Father?"_

* * *

Erik just stood there, stunned and disbelieving in the freezing fog that had rolled in from the sea. Now there was someone he never thought he would see again. But it was undeniably him, though his fair hair had long since turned white and his face had gained more than a few wrinkles and his dark priest's robes seemed a little more worn and threadbare than he remembered. He looked a lot shorter than he remembered, fairly obvious really seeing as he had only been a child when he last saw him. Just how long had it been exactly? He wasn't entirely sure, although logically it couldn't be any more than thirty years. Truthfully, his past felt like some kind of incomplete puzzle and he had lost more than a few pieces, and the memories that remained could never quite be placed in the right order. Nor did he want to give an order to that scattered collection of horrors.

"What are you doing here?" was all he could say, feeling so thoroughly shaken by the encounter that his usual instinct to disappear into the shadows was forgotten entirely. What on earth was the man doing here, surely this had to be more than coincidence. Had he been following them? That didn't seem likely. Father Bernard was an intelligent man but he hardly had the time or the energy to track him for three decades over three continents. What had he forgotten?

"Is that any way to address your tutor?" cried the elderly priest his face betraying a similar level of distress that he himself was feeling. "Where have you been all this time? I thought you were dead!"

"I think it would be best if we went inside." The Phantom replied, still feeling a little blindsided "There is much to explain."

* * *

Mifroid glanced across the small table at the woman who was quite possibly the only useful source of information. He was about to go home all engines blazing, determined to go to the Opera House to find her when the boy on the front desk had handed him a rather cryptic note from the very woman he was intent on questioning. Now they found themselves in a small cafe on St Germaine des Pres surrounded by a far more artistic crowd than he was used to. Mifroid did not approve of the creative temperament, and found the people who possessed it rather rude.

"I was rather surprised when I received your letter, Madame." He said with a slight chuckle "In fact I was about to go and see you."

"I heard they took you off the Phantom case." She said sympathetically.

"Well we were only supposed to be there for security measures." He replied, a little bitterly "La Surete normally take care of the investigations. Well that and I may have offended the Vicomte de Chagny."

"Yes, I heard about that. They're still searching the cellars, and they're keeping the whole thing very quiet so I suspect that they're... assuming the worst."

"But that could take them weeks." Mifroid exclaimed. "Trust me, Madame; it is no easy task finding a body in a place like that, especially when there isn't one."

"Then I'm correct in thinking that you believe that Christine is alive." Said Madame Giry with a smile. "I was hoping that was the case. You see, she is like a daughter to me; she very nearly was in fact. And while I have good reason to believe that she is safe, I could not live with myself if that wasn't the case."

"Just what exactly are you suggesting?" he asked, he had come here for answers and had only ended up with more questions. Shouldn't she have gone to the Vicomte for help if she wanted to find the girl? They shared a common goal after all.

"You discovered how his illusions work; you found a way into his house in a matter of hours. I've been searching for it for years and did not even come close. La Surete wouldn't know where to begin if it weren't for you." She replied earnestly.

"Flattery will get you everywhere, Madame." He joked but she ignored him.

"That is why I need your help. I need to find them. I need to make sure she's all right, that he's all right."

"Madame, who is he exactly?" Mifroid asked. The Vicomte mentioned that the woman knew the Phantom but her statement had been far from cooperative and she had not said much.

"Before I tell you anything monsieur, you must promise to help me as I have asked, and to promise that you will not tell another soul about any of this, not the police, not even your own family."

Mifroid hesitated, his own vigilantism deflating slightly. Was she asking him to aid a fugitive? That was a little heavy, even for him.

"Madame, this man has committed at least one murder. Now even if he hasn't harmed Mlle Daae, I can't just turn a blind eye to that."

"I understand monsieur." The ballet instructor replied, her face still largely unreadable. "Then may I at least ask you not to report to the authorities until after we have found them. Then when you have all the information you can do whatever you think is right."

Mifroid nodded, seemed a lot more acceptable but her confidence worried him a little. Was she really so convinced that such a murder could be justified? Well she was horribly mistaken.

"I don't need an answer right now monsieur, but if you decide to help me then I will be waiting here at the same time tomorrow evening. For now I think it would be best if we stayed away from the investigations at the opera house." Mme Giry concluded finishing her glass of wine and getting up to leave. "Farewell monsieur, I hope we shall meet again." And before he could question her further she was gone leaving the aging gendarme in the smoky cafe.

* * *

She was still shaking. How long had it been and few minutes, an hour? He hadn't come after her. She had been afraid of that. She would have to explain herself eventually. Explain what it was that had made her lash out. She needed time. Just a little longer, to think of exactly what she wanted to say.

In the past, when she was still a child and he was still the Voice or the Angel, he would listen to her confessions. They weren't really confessions, as they very rarely talked about her sins. The subjects of these conversations were mostly things like how she was feeling and the dreams she had. Sometimes she would tell him if she'd done something wrong. She had been so convinced of his omnipresence that she felt it best to come clean if she misbehaved, in case lying would anger him even more and drive him away.

He was never angry with her though. He would scold her sometimes if she neglected practising for his lessons, but for the most part he would just listen patiently and usually dispense a little angelic advice, most of which involved apologising to Mme Giry.

And as for the dreams, well for a long time he made them go away entirely. Reassured by his presence and safe in the knowledge that her father was safely in heaven where he belonged and not lost in some other dark unthinkable place, and that she had at least some chance at redemption, her childhood nightmares and sleepless nights had slowly faded away. Oh they resurfaced occasionally, how could they not, but when the Angel was near her she felt that almost forgotten certainty that everything would be all right. Perhaps she had become dependent on that certainty. Perhaps that was how it had all gotten so out of hand.

Because after a while, the voice alone was not enough, she began wishing that it could somehow be made flesh, take on a human form so it could be with her always and not for the few precious hours of her lessons and conversations. And when her dreams confirmed this desire in the most vivid detail, she felt she could no longer keep her wish to herself and on the day of her next confession, she told the Angel of her most intimate dream. There must have been other time when he had made mistakes, but perhaps she had never noticed them, or more likely she had chosen not to notice them. But his interest in the dream seemed far more human than anything she had heard from him before. He had wanted to know every last detail, and in spite of her growing doubts he had told him, the knot of fear collecting in her stomach combined with the strange emotion she had felt in sleep.

Then everything had fallen apart, although she was not sure if it had been her confession that had encouraged him to reveal himself or Raoul's sudden reappearance in her life. Perhaps it was a little of both, that had lead him to take her from her dressing room and confirm what she had suspected for such a long time but had not been able to face.

She heard the back door open and close and as she peered from behind her curtain she could just about make out his shape in the darkness of the walled garden. Where had he gone? Had he abandoned her already like before when she had seen his face? Had he merely gone for a walk to calm down?

She couldn't bear it if he left her again. The first time, with the pain of his lies and his anger fresh in her heart and the darkness creeping back over her far stronger than before, had been almost as painful as the night her father died. Because if there was no angel, then father hadn't sent him, and if he hadn't sent him then he couldn't be in heaven, and if he wasn't in heaven then... She couldn't carry on that thought, but for week it had continued in an endless loop in her mind coupled with that face and rage and the pain and the complete and utter despondency that was far greater than her own. What kind of life had he known? It had all been too much. She had needed someone, anyone. And Raoul had been there.

She was about to get changed for another troubled night when she heard voices downstairs.

* * *

The elderly priest looked around the music room with approval. Erik had poured them both a rather large cognac each, he had a feeling they would both need it. The man's presence unsettled him and it brought up memories he did not wish to think of, about his mother especially.

"I like what you've done with the old place." Father Bernard said with a nervous laugh, of course he would be nervous, Erik would have felt the same way if the scrawny deformed child he had taken pity on had grown into such a monster.

"Spare me the small talk, father, how did you find me?" he snarled.

"That's just it, lad. I didn't think I would find you. But when the notaire mentioned that someone had bought the Destler house, I just knew it had to be you. I knew that if there was the slightest chance you were still alive, you'd find your way back here." The old man babbled excitedly, forgetting his fear for a moment.

"The Destler house? What on earth are you talking about?"

"Don't you remember this town, Erik? I used to bring you here when you were a boy during the summer. Your grandfather built this house you might not have recognised it, you were only six and it didn't have those awful walls back then. And we used to walk along the beach every morning and watch the changeable tide."

So that was why he had been so drawn to the place. There had been something familiar about it, something that he couldn't put his finger on. But he had long since forgotten the name of the town or the arrangement of the landmarks, the tide had brought back memories, but it was like that all around that part of the coast and there were probably hundreds of villages like this one, so why had he chosen it? Had it been an unusual coincidence or had the memory been there deep beneath the surface of repression.

"The changeable tide, of course, I had almost forgotten. You'll forgive me for not dwelling on my childhood, father. You know as well as I do that it was not a happy one. After what happened, I preferred to forget." Erik sighed.

"Yes, I know." The priest said regretfully, "But what brings you here now? I saw you this afternoon with a young girl. Is she yours?"

Erik looked up sharply at the unusual question before realising that the old man had assumed that Christine might have been his daughter, and who could blame him, she was certainly young enough. The fact that the priest had seen the together had set him on his guard, he would surely ask too many questions, perhaps even demand to talk to Christine herself. And who was to say that he wouldn't go to the police if he learned the truth.

"No." He said unable to hold back the sadness in his voice at the other meaning of the man's question. "No, she is not mine."

The priest's concerned face became visibly worried and he lifted a trembling hand as though he was about to reach for Erik's arm or shoulder but decided against it and took a sip of his drink instead. He seemed wary, as though he understood that Erik was no longer the child he once knew.

"Then who is she? Erik...Son, if you have anything to confess, please do so now. If you're in trouble I can help you."

"Help me?" he heard himself laugh derisively the well of bitterness inside him suddenly overflowing. "Help me, father? How exactly do you propose to help me? I may not have remembered this place old man, but I remember you and all your self-righteous meddling and empty prayers. Will you make me sing again for your entire congregation like a performing monkey, father?" he was feeling the darkness creep up on him until he was blinded by it, like countless times before, like every time he saw her with that boy, safe in their snowstorm.

"I only thought it might help you, boy, I did not expect them to react as they did." The older man said earnestly. "And I wish to help you now, you and the girl."

"You sent me out there, like a lamb to the slaughter!" He bellowed "Now I suggest you leave, father, and if you have any sense of self-preservation you will not come back here. What I do is no business of yours." His voice had lowered to a low growled as he strode to the door and held it open for him. He did not miss the frightened gasp from the landing as he moved to the front door, or the sound of Christine scurrying back to her room. Just how much had she heard. The girl was too curious for her own good, not that loved her any less for it. Her incessant questions as a young girl had been rather endearing.

"You may threaten me all you want, but I will not turn a blind eye to this. If you have done anything untoward I demand to know." The priest said calmly as he had addressed him so many years ago when Erik had had one of his episodes. "If you need me, the church is easy enough to find, I reside in the cottage behind it. I shall return tomorrow when you've calmed down." He said finally as he made to leave.

"You will come to regret that decision." Erik mumbled after he had closed the door.

* * *

There had been a man downstairs the night before. There had been shouting but she could not hear what was being said from her spot on the landing. She had snuck out of her room when she heard her false angel return, using the excuse of fetching some water to wash with in her room, the thought of sharing a bathroom with Erik was still a little too much to handle even if there was a lock on the door. But suddenly the door to the music room opened and like the coward she was, she had scuttled back to her room, not ready to face him or the stranger just yet.

She peered at the clock from under her quilt. It had been nearly six in the morning when exhaustion finally claimed her after hours of lying awake in the chilly bedroom, worries and nightmares blending together seamlessly. It was now nine; she had only been asleep for three hours. She almost missed the chloral... almost. After that disastrous performance of Il Muto, Raoul had insisted on taking her to a doctor, who had put her insomnia and mild hysterics down to the stress of her sudden rise to fame and the pressures of rehearsals. And she had not argued; she knew what happened to mad people in hospitals. It was far easier to convince herself that it had all been a dream and to take her knockout drops every night, than to face the reality of what had happened, or what might have happened.

The season had ended early that year and she had fallen into a routine of ballet lessons and almost religious fasting and artificial sleep and sitting quietly through Raoul's weekly visits feeling nauseous and exhausted. He must have liked her drug induced passivity because he returned every weekend with even more lavish gifts and pink flowers by the basket-load, fresh from the deChagney hot-house. After a while, with no sign of her angel anywhere, she had begun to believe that maybe it was all a dream, and her childhood friend turned her head with memories of her father from that magical summer by the sea, when she had been wholly innocent and before everything had gone wrong. He made her feel like she was that person again, she didn't care if it was a lie, she wanted to be that girl again, pure and without a care in the world. And when he had proposed on Christmas Eve, she had said yes. But she couldn't quite bring herself to reply when he told her he loved her. She had not said those three words in such a long time; she honestly had no idea what they meant anymore. And she could not bring herself to wear his ring on her finger, that strange feeling of dread and guilt would always stop her hand.

Then on the night of the bal masque when her angel had returned in all his terrifying glory, she found herself lost for words. She was amazed that she didn't pass out in front of him, like the first time he'd been near her. She had not taken her tincture that evening, and after a good six hours of lying awake in her tiny room listening to the sound of her fiancé's snoring when he was supposed to be standing guard, she had taken the entire bottle with her and slipped out into the snowy morning towards her father's grave, not quite sure what she was going to do.

There was a soft knock at her bedroom door and Christine froze under the covers. She hastily sat up in bed and made sure her robe was tied, she had slept in it along with one of the warmer nightgowns she had found in the dresser. It had been so cold during the night and there was no wood in her fireplace, and she did not dare go downstairs to fetch some.

"Yes?" she called, her voice wavering a little with fear, she had locked her door the night before but with someone like Erik it didn't seem like quite enough.

"Christine, may I come in?"

He didn't sound particularly angry, perhaps staying away for the night had allowed him to down a little. Slowly she got to her feet, shivering a little as she left the warmth of her bed and moved across the thick rug and unlocked the door. She opened it slowly to reveal Erik, already fully clothed and carrying a breakfast tray. He had made her favourite, porridge with a spoonful of honey on top along with a pot of tea and some bread from yesterday that had been toasted. How did he know? She must've told him once. The scene was so bizarre that she couldn't help smiling a little.

* * *

His heart almost stopped when she opened her door to him. He had half expected her to still be angry at him, although he still wasn't quite sure what had set her off last night. But there she was, still in her night clothes, her hair a mass of chestnut tangles and her large brown eyes just staring at him with that odd mix of emotions that he was sure he'd never fully understand. And oh dear god, was she smiling at him? She'd never smiled at him before, at last not since he'd revealed himself to her and before that it had been the angel she had been smiling for, not him. But she was smiling now, and he felt as though he might drop the tray at any moment and take her right there against the doorframe.

"I thought you might be hungry." He forced out, realising he had been staring. It wasn't her state of undress that had him on edge; he had seen her in far more revealing clothes, both onstage and that night by the lake. It was definitely the smile that had rendered him speechless, and the small fleeting vision of him bringing his wife breakfast in bed. How he would treasure such moments if he had them. But he knew with a sinking feeling that he would not. He wasn't even fit to touch the hem of her dressing gown. She eyed the tray of food, seeming a little nervous, just like she had done as a child. It was then that he noticed how tired she looked and wondered if losing her appetite wasn't the only problem that had come back since he had been away. Had he been the cause of this? Had no one even noticed?

"I don't think I can remember the last time I ate breakfast." She said quietly.

"You must eat something, Christine. You hardly touched your dinner last night." And now he was sounding like an overbearing mother. It was a little hypocritical of him; he probably ate even less than she did.

"I-I know. But I'm not sure if I can." She stuttered. He had expected her to say something like that, so he had decided to at least make her something she liked and that was easy to swallow while still being quite nourishing.

"I can bring you something else, if you don't like it." He encouraged. He could see the guilt in her expression.

"It's not that, I just ... W-would you sit with me?" he certainly hadn't been expecting that and could only nod dumbly as she took the tray from his hands and drifted back into her bedroom. She halted as she caught a glimpse out the window with a surprised gasp.

"The sea, it's gone!"

He looked out over the wide expanse of sand and salt marsh where the sea should have been. "It's a dry harbour. The tide goes out for miles."

"It's so strange. Like a desert." She said moving to sit on the bed and began pouring her tea. He felt a flutter of relief when she began eating, and was glad that he had arranged for regular deliveries from the nearby dairy farm.

He decided to sit at her writing desk, with the chair turned to face her. It was far enough away, so he wouldn't make her nervous. That and he didn't trust himself to get too close.

"I suppose so. But deserts aren't usually so flat." He replied but regretted the comment. Why on earth had he said that? He had been silent about his past for so many years, which was fairly easy since he had no one to talk to. But now he was filled with a desperate longing to share his life, countered with a paralysing fear of rejection once she learned the truth.

"Have you been to a desert?" she asked curiously.

"Yes, but that was a long time ago." He said dismissively. She looked hurt, and he wished he could have been a little braver and told her about the blistering heat, and the sand storms, and how cold it could get when night fell but the stars were so bright with the milky way arching across the sky, that he found it hard to truly resent that harsh environment, even though it nearly killed him.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry." She said quietly, pushing her food around. "And I'm sorry for what I did last night. I don't know what came over me."

"Don't apologise. You have nothing to apologise for." He cut her off sharply. He had just taken her away from everyone she knew and loved, she had every right to hate him.

"I just... I hate it when you say things like that. That I should have let them kill you. Do you truly believe that?" she said, her eyes shining with unshed tears. "What kind of life have you known that would make you think that?"

"Christine, if you knew that life it would not be my words that you hated." He replied coldly and got up to leave, ignoring the turmoil that she inspired within him. Had his words really affected her so much? He had expected her to be angry, to have seen sense and demanded that he return her to Paris. But instead her concern seemed to rest solely with him. He just couldn't trust that. He didn't dare to. If she knew what he had done, what he had planned to do she would not look at him with such concern.

* * *

She fought back tears as he door slammed and could no longer stomach the sickly sweetness of the oatmeal. She had tried once again to make peace and once again she had been shot down for it. And once again she had no idea how to draw him from his black mood.

She had broken through the thin sheet of ice on the surface of her wash bowl and attempted to make herself appear at least reasonably presentable before she dressed. Erik had mentioned something about them having hot water through some form of boiler, but she had no idea if it was working or not. At the opera house she had never had access to that kind of luxury, and had to make do with the kettle and tin bath in the dormitory wash room.

Thinking of it sent a rush of homesickness through her, that place had not been the nicest place to grow up but it was still a home to her in many ways. She realised that she missed Meg and Madame Giry terribly and wished there was a way she could let them know she was all right. She missed Raoul as well though perhaps not as much as she had expected to. The thought made her feel guilty, as did the idea that although she was still fond of her childhood friend she couldn't help viewing her sudden removal from the responsibilities of her engagement with a certain degree of relief. Was he looking for her? What would happen if he found them? She tried not to think of it, for if her angel found himself at the end of the vicomte's sword she was certain that she would not be able to stop him. And it was never her intention to see anyone hurt.

She did not hear from Erik for the rest of the day and the door to him remained resolutely locked. She had no clue what he was doing in there, at first she believed him to be composing but there was no sound and most definitely no organ music. Although with Erik's obvious talent she wouldn't have been surprised if he was able to pull entire symphonies fully formed out of his head without once touching an instrument. Her father had told her that Mozart had been able to do that, and in her opinion Erik could easily rival those great composers in brilliance and while he was no angel she still felt humbled that he had chosen her as his pupil.

After she had dressed she made her way down to the kitchen, noticing that Erik hadn't cleaned up after preparing her breakfast, nor had he tidied much from the night before except for sweeping up the broken glass. She would have to broach the subject of how they were going to share the household chores. She was aware that he had looked after himself for a long time, but also that his underground home was not the tidiest of places. After he work was done she found herself at a loose end. She considered going to the music room to get a closer look at the treasure trove of instruments that were stored there, but she did not want to cause a disturbance just yet by making noise, nor did she want to explain herself if she clumsily broke something valuable.

The library seemed a much better option. And she spent a good half hour looking through all the different title, at least all the titles that she could understand. They did not seem to be arranged in any particular order which annoyed her a little, they just seemed to have been thrown together haphazardly. She would have to rectify that at some point but she realised with some dismay that that was an almost impossible task. How did one arrange Chinese scrolls in alphabetical order?

For now she would have to make do with a good read and spied a copy of La Dame aux camellias that looked quite promising. She had never read it but had adored the Opera Populaire's production of La Traviata some years ago. Her intentions were interrupted once again when he attempt at reaching it dislodged a small untitled volume which dropped to the Persian carpet with a dull thud. As she stooped to retrieve it she recognised it as a journal of sorts, and there were drawings, _his _drawings. The page it had opened on revealed a sketch of a majestic domed building the likes of which she had never seen before. Burning with curiosity she grabbed both books and, feeling that going out into the cold rain was not on her agenda, decided not to waste the current firewood and carried them to the kitchen intending to curl up in the rocking chair by the range. She was so focused on the notebook in her hands that it took her a few moments to notice the dark ecclesiastical figure in the garden approaching the back door.

* * *

"I had a feeling I'd see you again, Monsieur Mifroid." She smiled over her the rim of her glass of Ricard. She looked very odd in her funereal dress and her hair was braided so tightly it seemed to pull the skin on her face back. Was that how women of a certain age disguised their wrinkles these days?

"What can I say? I can't turn down a challenge." The gendarme grinned back; he definitely took no shame in his wrinkles. "...Regardless of the risks."

"Will you get into trouble with your superiors for this?" she asked curious.

"No but if my wife finds out what I'm doing, I'm dead. And I don't mean that in a figurative sense, she will beat me to death with her umbrella. She's rather proficient at brawling you know, it's one of the reasons I married her."

"Moving swiftly on." Madame Giry stated, already looking rather annoyed. "I suspect that the Vicomte deChagney is becoming frustrated by the current investigation. He's insisting that Christine is still alive, if he learns of our actions he might interfere."

"So, she's his fiancé, I might not like the lad that much but doesn't he have a right to get involved?" Mifroid asked.

"In any other circumstances it would not bother me but in light of recent events I believe that he'd only cause problems." She looked nervous, perhaps there was more to the affair than the Vicomte had told him that night.

"All right. Well perhaps we could begin with you telling me what you know."

* * *

"What happened at the Opera house had been building up for a long time. I suppose in order to fully understand it I must start from the beginning. I have already told you the circumstances of how I met the Phantom, or at least the boy who would become the Phantom. The boy in the, cage looked dangerously thin and was covered in his own filth, he looked as though he couldn't have been any more than ten years old but I never knew for sure. Once we were safely hidden in the cellars the boy broke down, clearly horrified at what he'd just done, perhaps he was even more horrified than I. I tried to clean him up but he only flinched away from my hand and clutched at that horrible sack he had been forced to wear even more tightly as though he feared I would rip it off. He was like that for a long time and the only thing I was able to do was bring him food and water. I also borrowed some old costumes from the storerooms and a mask, I felt as though it would be cleaner than an old sack with eye holes.

For weeks he would shy away from me every time I ventured down there, I'd hear him sometimes, or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that I sensed his presence since he moved almost silently, but I never saw him when I left him things. They would always be gone the next day though. He was a strange boy. The other girls in the ballet corps began to whisper rumours, about hearing noises in the night, wailing and sometimes they would hear the most beautiful voice singing. I heard them too when I tried to sleep and my heart broke for the child. That was how the story of the Opera ghost began, it continued long after he had left."

"So he left then? What happened?" Mifroid asked, he had not realised how enthralled he had been with her story.

"I was getting to that." Madame Giry frowned "Over the few months that he stayed below the Opera Populaire it soon became apparent that the child was tremendously gifted, and I soon began to bring him things that might take his interest, books and drawing materials and sheet music. He made the most amazing drawings of the stage and of the statues on the roof; they could almost have come alive from the page. He'd leave them for me to find, along with little notes saying thank you. That was how we communicated at first, and I suppose it became his preferred method for we spoke very little back then. I have some of them with me."

She handed him a bundle of yellowed letters all of which were written in the sort of loopy cursive handwriting that children learned in school. Among them was a sketch of a young woman, clearly a younger version of Madame Giry in a costume from Il Seraglio. The notes ranged from simple thank you letters to enthusiastic ramblings about what he had done that day. His eye fell on a curious one.

_ Dearest Netta,_

_I know you will scold me for going down there again but I could not help myself. You would not believe the things I found there. There is a great lake past the third cellar and beyond that if you're brave enough to swim it is a cavern that I suspect was built as part of the catacombs. I now believe the cellars are connected to a whole labyrinth of tunnels and old mine shafts that lead all over Paris and I am anxious to explore them. I know you will not be pleased but perhaps I will make a raft for us and I will show it to you the next time you visit me._

"Netta?" Mifroid read, raising an eyebrow. He really couldn't picture a horribly disfigured murderer using such a childish nickname.

"I never did let him show me the tunnels. I was afraid of the dark." Madame Giry said sadly. "Perhaps if I had I would have been able to find him. Now more than ever I keep wondering if all this could have been avoided if I had just talked to him in person, reasoned with him. He might have listened."

"There's no use dwelling on the what ifs, Madame." The lieutenant said solemnly then hastily clutched at the next letter with a sudden excitement.

_Dearest Netta_

_I've finally deciphered the miner's symbols in the lower tunnels. My first suspicion that the strange markings were a code for them to find their way was correct but since then I have found that some of them direct you to specific places and others warn of dangers that might occur in the area, for example a simple one would be to carve a curved line to signify water, meaning that that particular tunnel is prone to flooding. I have included a list of symbols that I have discovered and their meanings._

He stared at the list, eyes almost bulging out of his head at the detail. "Oh Madame, I think you've found a new piece for our puzzle. He must have used his knowledge of those tunnels to get away."

"He learned to navigate them awfully quickly. That letter was written less than a week after the previous one. He built some sort of dory down there, one that was only big enough for a child to use."

"So you're telling me that an eight year old boy, his other talents aside, not only managed to map out Paris's vast largely unmapable subterranean networks but also knocked up a boat in his spare time out of, I don't know, old set pieces?"

"Yes, Monsieur Mifroid that's exactly what I'm telling you?" Madame Giry said sternly.

"Right, did the boy tell you anything about his true identity or where he was from?"

"Only that he was an orphan and that he had no home to return to, Monsieur." The strange woman replied. "Other than that he was a complete mystery."

"Well, he's had a least some schooling, that's for sure." Mifroid stated. "His ability to swim and build basic watercraft would suggest that he was at least partially raised in a maritime environment, but I can't be certain of that. Please continue, I believe you were about to tell me how the two of you parted ways." He said, perhaps more information would reveal itself as she went on. Right now that only solid lead they had was the letter with the symbols.

"Well things continued fairly peacefully as the months passed. He gradually began to recover from the trauma of what had happened at the gypsy camp although he still didn't speak much and became nervous if I looked him directly in the eye. For a while, things felt...settled, I suppose, if you could call it that. But although we never discussed it, we both knew that it couldn't last.

It was my fault, I had become careless about sneaking out at night to meet him, and a young man named Joseph Bouquet had followed me and accosted me in one of the corridors. I know the boy was only trying to help me but, it was too late, Bouquet had seen him right before he lost consciousness. There was no other option for him but to leave."

"Joseph Bouquet, wasn't that the other man who died?"

"The very same, he was the only other staff member who had been around back then. The police called his death a drunken accident, I was hoping that they were correct, but after the incident with Piangi I have my doubts. A more likely explanation was that he had discovered the Phantom's whereabouts and had gone looking for him, a very foolish thing to do."

"When did this man return? Are you even sure it was the same person?" the officer asked.

"You were there that night. You heard him sing. Well even as a child his voice held some strange power. It's difficult to explain. And he knew things about me, things that only he would know. He would not allow me to see him when he returned, he merely spoke to me from his many hiding places, but I knew it was the same boy I rescued all those years ago. I believe it was about five years ago, when he came back, and at that time he had been gone for almost twenty five years. As you can probably imagine, the grown man was nothing like the child I had known. I asked him about where he'd been all those years, but he refused to speak of it. Whatever had happened during his absence had left him greatly altered, cold and unemotional."

"He didn't give that impression the other night." Mifroid stated. If anything the man he had seen onstage seemed as passionate as the opera he had written.

"No, I believe he has been altered again since his return to Paris." Madame Giry agreed. "Let me tell you about Christine."


	5. Little Dried Flowers

** Little Dried Flowers**

* * *

**Disclaimer – I don't own any Phantoms.**

* * *

Father Julian Bernard had never believed in fate before, but on that day he was no longer sure what he believed in. Or perhaps he'd never been sure in the first place. After the tragedy that had befallen the Destler family, the good but unfortunate people who had practically adopted him after his father's death, supported his studies and donated generously to each of the charities he slaved over, the soup kitchens and the foundling hospital, especially the foundling hospital. He had been so idealistic then, he had wanted to help everyone. He had wanted to help Madeleine, who had once been like a sister to him, he had even considered leaving the church and marrying her if it would have improved the situation, although he was fairly certain that it wouldn't have helped. And most of all he had wanted to help Erik.

But even a glance could show that the man he had encountered the night before was not the haunted yet fascinating child he had once known and tutored. If it wasn't for his eyes he would not have believed it was the same person, or just the one eye to be more accurate. Although he could not see it clearly from behind the mask there was a definite change to it, not the expressive grey of its counterpart but an ordinary blue that seemed dead and unmoving. Had it been damaged somehow or had he lost it completely and replaced it with a false one? The aging priest knew that it was unlikely for the past thirty years to have been pleasant ones for his former pupil if his early childhood was anything to go by. Whatever might have happened to him, well, it didn't bear thinking about. And deep down, past all of his good intentions, Father Bernard knew that he was to blame. That was why he had returned to the house on that gloomy afternoon, ignoring the masked man's threats. He had to set things right.

Instead of the sinister apparition from his past, he was met with the frightened gaze of the girl he had seen arrive with him the day before. He had only caught a glimpse of her then, and she had seemed so small and fragile next to her companion's towering height that he had assumed she was a child. Now as he looked at her properly he supposed that in many ways she was a child, as she looked no older than sixteen. "She is not mine" Erik had said, and those words took on a new meaning as the priest realised that instead of being a ward or foster child like he had assumed, the masked man might have brought her here for reasons that were anything but paternal. Was she here willingly? It seemed that way as both the gate and the back door were unlocked. But those eyes seemed so filled with sorrow and fatigue that he was no longer sure, she was so pale and so thin and so fearful.

"Forgive me for intruding, Mademoiselle." He said, breaking the tense silence. "I'm looking for Monsieur Erik Destler, is he home?" she stared at him for a moment before replying.

"He's working, I'm afraid he doesn't wish to be disturbed. But if you have a message to give him, I could pass it on."

"Oh that won't be necessary. Just tell him I was here and that I will return when he's less busy. My name is Father Bernard by the way."

"Christine." The girl replied and reached for the hand he had offered and shook it. "Would you care to stay for some tea, father?"

His curiosity prevented him from refusing her invitation, and the priest took a seat at the kitchen table and glanced at the two books she had left there while she filled the kettle. One was a novella and the other looked like some sort of diary, perhaps her own, which he was too polite to open.

"I suppose Erik invited you here to discuss his plans for the wedding." The girl said nervously, placing the tea set in front of him. So that was Erik's intention, and he had obviously not told her about him, not that he had expected that he would.

"He never mentioned a wedding. And he didn't invite me." He didn't miss the relieved expression that passed across her face. "I used to know him; it feels like an age ago now. And when I heard the rumours about a masked man buying this house, well I thought a visit was long overdue." Her eyes widened "And what about you? How did you come to know him?"

"I was still a child when I met him. My father had just passed away and he became...a guardian of sorts." She would not look him in the eye when she spoke and Julian couldn't help but suspect that she wasn't telling the whole truth.

"A guardian who is now your fiancé." Her gaze remained focused on the pattern of her cup, which was made of etched glass instead of china, and held in a silver stand with a handle.

"I thought that might have been his intention, but now I'm not so certain." She replied.

"Mademoiselle, if you are in any kind of trouble, I swear I will help in any way I can." The old man whispered hastily. "If he has done anything to hurt you..."

"Father, I assure you he has done nothing of the sort." Christine replied, her eyes widening at what he was implying. "It's not that I don't appreciate your concern but I am in no danger. Erik has been very kind to me, and in the past he helped me when no one else could."

"Helped you? In what way?" he asked, burning with curiosity, but the girl hesitated.

"I told you that he took care of me after my father died. But it was so much more than that. I had cared for him for over three years, watching him waste away as the sickness slowly destroyed any trace of him. And when he couldn't go on any more, I felt as though I had died too. My body was going through the motions of living, but inside there was only nothingness."

Father Bernard looked at the strange child with surprise; he had truly not expected her to reveal something so personal to her. Granted his position in the village meant that a lot of people came to him for advice, but he had known most of them for over thirty years now, performing their wedding ceremonies and baptizing their children, he had been there for each landmark of their lives. This girl was a stranger, travelling with a terribly scarred man, both on the inside and out. But if she was telling the truth and Erik truly had helped her through such a trauma then perhaps there was still hope that his child prodigy had not been lost to the cruelties of the world.

"Tell me, does he still sing? he asked.

* * *

"I was eighteen when I met Christine's father Gustave Daae. By that time I was Prima Ballerina at the opera house and he came in to audition with the man who would eventually become my husband. He was Swedish but had somehow acquired a rich sponsor to support his studies at the conservatoire in Paris. They were both very talented and were immediately hired for the positions of first and second violin. When my husband began courting me he introduced us properly and the three of us became inseparable. That was truly one of the happiest times in my life; the disfigured boy from the carnival was all but a memory and it truly felt as though the world was at our feet. We were young, talented and mixing with some of the most important people in the music world. It was as though nothing could stop us.

However it all came to an end one summer, Gustave received word that his parents had both died during a typhoid outbreak and decided to return to Uppsala to arrange their funeral and settle their affairs. My husband and I decided to rush our wedding plans a little so he could be there for the ceremony. Not that he was the biggest supporter of religious institutions, mind, but he stood by us as the best man and made some rather boisterous speeches.

As the years passed we kept a correspondence. He had decided to stay in Sweden and for a while he made a living as a private music teacher. That was how he met his wife. She was a pupil of his, from a fairly well to do family, and before long they ran away together much to the dismay of her parents. They lived together in a kind of common law marriage for a year or so, but they made it official after Christine was born. I believe that was more at his in-laws insistence. They were deeply religious and Gustave hated organised religion. He thought that people should be free to do or believe in whatever they wanted as long as they didn't hurt anyone. And while I suppose he did believe in God in his own way, he also believed in goblins and giants.

Well some years later, both my husband and his wife died no more than a few months apart. He arranged to return to Paris, as turned out his in laws blamed him for their daughter's death as she died giving birth to their second child. And they also wanted Christine, claiming that his profession and lifestyle made him unfit to raise a child. A completely ridiculous claim, because he loved that child more than anything else in the world."

The ballet mistress took a final sip of her drink and looked up at the police officer.

"After he returned to Paris with his daughter, we began an affair of sorts. It seemed logical enough at the time. We had known each other for a long time, we both had daughters who were about the same age and we were both grieving, feeling the need to fill that hole that the sadness left behind. It worked for a little while, but there were always too many memories for it to feel entirely right. And then his health began to decline and things took a turn for the worse.

One of the more notable things about consumption is that it takes a long time to finally kill you. So during that time we were able to put his affairs in order. I agreed to take care of Christine and ensured her a place in the ballet school. They seemed to cope with it incredibly well, and Christine was always the dutiful nurse. They spent many months by the sea, hoping that he would improve with the change of air, but it only helped for a while. He relapsed shortly after they returned. The Gustave asked me something very strange. He asked me if it was all right to do something bad when you knew it would help someone you love. My thoughts immediately went back to that boy I rescued, I hadn't thought about him in years but suddenly the memory was right there as if it had happened only yesterday, almost like a premonition. He then went on to ask me to...end his life, if the pain became too much. I was horrified at the suggestion and we argued, for what seemed like the whole night. I was shocked that he would even contemplate such a thing, so of course I refused.

A few weeks later he was dead, and the daughter he left behind was so devastated that, well it doesn't even bare thinking about."

Mifroid looked up from his notes and peered at her over his reading spectacles.

"Madame, are you trying to tell me that this man would ask such a thing of his own child?"

"I don't know, Monsieur. Truth be told, I didn't want to know. But her grief was so consuming, so complete, that I couldn't help but wonder. I'm sure anyone who's endured the death of a loved one must feel like the world is ending, but for Christine, it was like her soul had been taken out. Like only her body was alive. And then He came."

"The Phantom, or the man who you believe was the boy you rescued."

"Like I said, monsieur, he never let me see him. But I heard his voice, and there was no mistaking it. It had broken certainly, but there was still that strange, enchanting quality that had sparked off all those ghost stories so many years ago. Well you heard it for yourself."

"I certainly did. I've never claimed to know much about music, Madame, but that voice was something truly different."

"He never told me his name, or where he'd been all those years. He offered me an impressive sum of money to take care of his mail. Not only his messages to the opera house staff but his other correspondence which I would pick up from a post office box and leave in a secret compartment in box five. And don't look so excited, monsieur. He never used his real name, only the pseudonym O.G. And believe me I tried to get in touch with his accountant but to no avail."

"If he was using a false name then he probably has several other false identities. So somehow I doubt tracking down his bank account will offer us much help. If he has a brain at, which he does, then he will have closed the account before the incident even took place."

"What do you mean?"

"Consider this, Madame. This man supposedly lived below the opera house for a number of years, yet the only belongings we found down there were a discarded costume, a mannequin in effigy of Mlle Daae, and several full length mirrors which hid the openings to more passageways. Now the original theory they were throwing around was that his lair was further away from the lake and located somewhere within the labyrinth of tunnels. But what if the cavern by the lake was his home? Who would live in an empty cavern? Well what if it wasn't empty until a short while ago. What if he'd been planning this disappearance for longer than we supposed and taken his things to a new location. If we find the location, we will surely find him and Mlle Daae."

"But how, Monsieur?"

"That is something we still need to find the answer to."

* * *

He had anticipated blood, and that anticipation was still running through his veins. It was all a little too much to handle. She must have sensed what he was planning, that was the only explanation. So she had come with him quietly like a good little martyr. He had thought that she would hurt him again by going along with the boy's plan, unmasking him to the world, exposing his weakness. The thought brought back uncomfortable memories. But she hadn't, and she didn't want him killed or so she had said. He couldn't help but feel hopeful at that, even though hope was foolish.

She had reached out to him and once more he had lashed out like a wounded animal. Perhaps not as violently as before, when his mask was in place he could at least rein in his anger a little and control himself. But he wasn't below the cellars anymore; she was only a room away, only a wall separated them as they slept. It was almost unbearable, knowing she was so close. He had tried to control himself, control his cravings. He had stayed clean for her before, for nearly five years in fact, and he would damn well do it again. But how could he do so when she was bound to notice something was wrong. He had planned on stopping the day before but that damned priest had appeared out of nowhere and thrown him off guard and before he knew it he had thrown the man out and retreated upstairs with a spike in his vein. How very pathetic. He should not have let things get this far, but he had been so despondent, so convinced that he had lost her forever had gone back to his old, sinful habits. He had used any means to escape the pain he felt and it had lead to some disastrous decisions. The killings, the violence, the madness. How could she possibly love him when he was keeping her here with unspoken threats? How could she feel anything other than fear?

He had to go to her, if she hadn't already run away. Tell her everything and face the music, then take her back to the boy. Then he would take everything in the drawer of the music box, from the little dried flowers to the morphine solution, and then he would stagger into the miles of open sand and wait for the sea to return and wash over him, for he truly did not deserve to live after what he'd done.

But when he spied her from the hallway when he finally emerged from his hiding place and skulked downstairs, he knew that he would not be able to do the honourable thing. She was at the table reading surrounded by a spotless kitchen with the smell of cooking permeating the air. She hadn't left him. She hadn't run away. That strange warm feeling returned but he quickly ignored it. She hadn't left because she was too afraid to leave, and she hadn't made dinner out of kindness but because he had neglected her all day. Then his eyes fell on what she was reading and felt that it was imperative that he make his presence known.

* * *

The rest of the conversation with Father Bernard had been unusually pleasant. She had asked him how he had come to know her strange companion, but the older man would only tell her that he was a friend of the family and that it wasn't his place to say anything more. When they had finished their tea he had told her that he would return the day after and the perhaps the three of them could have dinner together. She hadn't felt proud of herself, omitting the truth and from a priest no less. But it probably wasn't a good idea to tell the man that Erik had been haunting an opera house for the past five years and in the police's eyes, had abducted her. She washed up the tea set, and to her delight she found that the sink had warm running water, which made the task a lot more pleasant for while the range had heated the kitchen rather nicely, there was still a slight wintery chill from outside.

It was nearing six in the evening, and since there was no movement from upstairs she decided to start dinner herself finding herself quite hungry for what felt like the first time in months. It was only fair, since he had made dinner the night before and brought her breakfast in bed. It was strange how he had picked up on her loss of weight almost immediately when no one else had even noticed. Perhaps it was because they hadn't seen each other in so long; the change would have appeared more drastic. And perhaps Raoul thought that all ladies pushed their food around on their plate without eating it, the ones she had met were certainly like that. Now that she thought about it, Erik seemed a little thin as well, or perhaps haggard was a better word. He was still tall and imposing like she remembered, but there was something different, something weary about him that she didn't like. It reminded her of how her father had looked when he had begun to get worse. Was he ill as well?

Once the soup was simmering away on the hob she turned back to the notebook she had been distracted from. It was filled from cover to cover with notes and drawings. It wasn't a diary exactly, it gave no dates or details about what he had been doing personally, but they seemed to cover a journey from the Russian empire to Manchuria then back westwards again to Northern India, if what she remembered from her geography lessons was correct. She would have to find an atlas or a globe somewhere to be entirely sure and even then some of the place names were unlike any she'd ever heard before. Unsurprisingly, the main subject the notes covered was music. He must have meticulously studied every local custom and folksong for there were literally pages and pages of notes and diagrams and sheet music along with descriptions of the rhythm patterns, what instruments were used, what they were made of and the singing techniques they used.

She was so thoroughly engrossed in the text that she did not notice him enter the kitchen at first. His shadow darkened her page and startled her.

"I see you've found my field notes." He said bluntly.

"Field notes? I'm sorry, was I not supposed to read them?"

"On the contrary I was planning on using them for our lessons before..." he paused and she felt the guilt eat away at her once again. He had been right when he had said she still had much to learn, and she had just abandoned him. But if music had brought them together then perhaps it could be the force that reconciled them.

"I was wondering perhaps if you would continue teaching me." He asked tentatively "That is if you want to."

"I'd be happy to, if you're sure." If she had looked away in the brief second then she would have missed the slight hint of a smile that played across his face. She decided she liked it; it made him look less tired.

"Of course I'm sure. Just think of it, creative freedom, no constraints for time." The thought made her a lot more excited than she had been expecting and she realised it had been months since she had received his guidance.

"But you would not be performing in public. Does that bother you?" he asked. Was that guilt she saw in his eyes?

"I know this might sound ungrateful, but I'm actually quite relieved." She replied "I felt that I had to be successful, for father, it was what he always wanted for me. And for you as well, after all you had taught me so much it seemed a shame to let all that training go to waste. I love music and I love to sing, but..."

"You didn't like the attention it brought you."

"No."

"I didn't like it either." He agreed after a tense pause.

"Pardon?"

"What I mean to say is, I don't like the thought of others hearing you sing." He repeated "I thought you wanted to perform, so I encouraged you. But I'm greedy and selfish and I knew that if I had my way I would keep your voice all to myself."

The intensity of his words frightened her. He had said something similar the first time she'd seen him face to masked face, something about her serving his music. Could she truly assist such genius, or would she crumble under the pressure. No her father had been a genius, Erik was something else entirely. And even with her upbringing, where she had practically learned to sight read before her father had taught her the alphabet, she felt completely out of her depth.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that." He said, not meeting her gaze and she decided to avoid the subject.

"Perhaps we should have dinner, and then you can tell me about Asia."

* * *

**A/N – Hi everyone, sorry it's taken me so long to update. And sorry that its so short. I'll try and be quicker with the next chapter (try being the key word here). I've bumped this story up to an M rating to be on the safe side with the drug references. It's not that graphic but it might get that way in future chapters. Yes I really like studying 19th century drugs, it's a very weird area of interest but yeah, I just find it interesting. Anyway I hope you enjoyed the chapter and as always reviews are exchanged for inappropriate amounts of love.**

**Love Sho x**


	6. Demone

**Demone**

* * *

**Disclaimer – I own nothing to do with the original story or its characters. Or any of the other individuals or works referenced as part of this fic.**

**A/N – Well I took a short trip to the south of France to visit the parent folks, and the atmosphere and the general relaxing time gave me the drive to write some more. I'm really really sorry this is taking so long. I supposed I'm moving in a quality over quantity direction (hopefully). Anyway on with the story, reviews make you awesome ect ect**

* * *

Meg Giry had been waiting impatiently for her mother to return from her latest meeting with the rather unusual Monsieur Mifroid. She knew exactly what was going on of course; she and her mother told each other everything. She too did not believe the speculation and the gossip that was permeating the opera house. It certainly wasn't a murder suicide like the police were insinuating and she knew that their plans to drain the lake they had found below the cellars would only be wasting time. She hadn't been able to explain how she knew this, perhaps it had been something in his voice or something about the way she looked at him. But upon that stage she had witnessed a connection that she knew she could never comprehend. She fought back tears at the thought, her only true friend, her sister was gone. She had not even been able to say goodbye. The knock on door to their rooms startled her and at first she thought that her mother had returned only to chastise herself at her stupidity. "Mother wouldn't knock on her own door, silly"

She undid the latch and soon came face to face with the Vicomte de Chagny.

"Oh, Monsieur. I didn't think you'd still be here at such a late hour."

"I had to stay with the investigation, in case they discovered something." The viscount replied sadly. "Tell me; is your mother at home?"

"She had to go out, I'm afraid." She said "Perhaps you should come back in the morning."

"I just can't help feeling that this is all my fault." Raoul cried, ignoring her suggestion and swanning past her into her mother's rooms and throwing himself clumsily on the sofa. "If I had just listened to her and arranged for us to run away while we had the change then maybe none of this would have happened. I should not have forced her to perform in that damned opera."

"That Damned Opera, has been sold out for weeks." Meg protested picking up the newspaper that contained the review of that fateful night and dropping it with a light thud on the coffee table. "Paul Lhérie turned down a contract with La Scala in order to replace Piangi as Don Juan. They're calling it the most important work since Rigoletto and we didn't even finish performing it."

"You can't be serious. They can't possibly continue running that thing, this whole place is a crime scene, they don't even have a female lead."

"Well, the managers hardly care about showing respect for the dead when there's money involved."

"Don't say that!" he cried suddenly "We don't know for sure and as long as there is the slightest chance that she is alive I will not lose hope."

"I was talking about Senior Piangi." Meg clarified, feeling her eye twitch a little with irritation. It was a problem that had begun with the viscount's arrival at the opera house all those months ago and she wondered if the two were connected.

"I only wished for us to be happy, how did I get it all so horribly wrong?" said the viscount dejectedly.

"Happy? This is Christine we're talking about, I haven't seen her happy since..." 'Since she told me about her angel of music' her mind piped up but she ignored it "Well, since her father was alive." Raoul's eyes darkened, as though he was reliving a painful memory.

"Ah yes," he muttered "The famous and saintly Gustaave Daae. Did you ever notice, Meg, that when we were out together he was all she wanted to talk about?"

"The two of you share a memory of him, one that isn't tainted by tragedy. Can you really blame her for wanting to remember her father?"

"Of course not, but this – this fixation of hers, it isn't healthy. And that man, that _thing_ was able to manipulate her because of it. It was almost as though she thought they were one and the same." Raoul said almost bitterly but the theory didn't sit right with her. She had been aware of Christine's growing depression since that fateful night although she had hidden it well from the rest of the corps de ballet, and later on from Raoul himself. But she and her mother had not been so easily fooled. She had felt terribly powerless during that dark time, her friend had merely said "I was mistaken, there was no angel" and refused to speak of it again, and her mother had not been able to tell her what she knew for fear that she would go down below and seek out the strange man who lived there. No, she could not have believed that that man was a link to her father at that point. Instead she had been disillusioned and lost, as though she had been forced to grieve all over again.

"Forgive monsieur, but that doesn't make any sense." Meg said incredulously.

"Nothing makes sense any more. How could he have taken her so easily, there were dozens of people backstage, how could no one have seen him? How could she have gone with him without even putting up a fight?"

The ballerina sighed "I suppose we won't know until we find her. But the way I see it, she must have suspected that something terrible would happen that night so she went with him quietly to try and avoid it. If she hadn't, who knows how many more lives would have been lost."

"She said she was frightened of what might happen. But I would have handled it, surely she would have known that." There was that bitterness again and Meg suspected that he felt rather angry that his fiancé had had so little faith in him. Was he really blaming her? She was aware that men weren't the brightest of creatures but this was ridiculous. "She can't have been thinking clearly. Were you and your mother aware that she'd stopped taking her medicine?"

" Yes."

"Well damn it, girl, why didn't you do something about it?"

"Mother didn't think keeping her sedated was the best way to deal with things."

"It was imperative that she didn't become upset. It was better for her to believe that it was all a dream. The truth would have only frightened her. God only knows what that thing did to her down there, I thought it was for the best if she just tried to forget about it."

"She's not a child anymore." Meg cried, "That's one thing you don't seem to have realised. She's had to fend for herself for a long time now; she's not the girl you knew anymore."

* * *

He stood in the doorway feeling as though he was about to have a panic attack as Christine began to set the table. He hadn't had one for a long time but he knew that if he didn't calm down soon he would have trouble breathing. How could he have said something like that when he had vowed not to frighten her away again? It must have been the lingering effects of the morphine that had loosened his tongue so, and now he had revealed what an irrationally jealous bastard he really way. She had politely changed the subject and left him burning with shame.

"I almost forgot to tell you. The priest was here again." He heard her say; it took a moment or two for the words to register. What on earth was wrong with him today? It was then that he noticed the teapot by the sink with two cups beside it.

"Damn him. He should have known better than to come back." He growled, making her tremble slightly.

"I-I'm sorry, but I couldn't exactly send him away, he'd already seen me." She stammered, it hurt to see how terrified she was but the heat in his blood stream was still present and he didn't know how to stop himself.

"Of course you couldn't send him away, not when such a golden opportunity just turns up on your doorstep. He might have been thinking about reporting me to the authorities but he definitely will after hearing your tragic story. Tell, what time are the police expected to arrive? Is this how you plan to end me, Christine, is it?" he was shouting now and she flinched away, but he quickly grabbed her by the shoulders. "Were you going lead me away from that damned opera house before you sent for your viscount? Were you going to raise my hopes only to destroy them?"

"No!"

"Why, Christine? Why would you betray me!" he was hyperventilating now, he felt as though he was about to pass out as she swiftly released her from his grasp and turned away, gripping the sides of the sink feeling as though he might throw up or collapse at any moment.

There was a long silence, the only sound were Erik's gasps for air and the soft sound of rain hitting the window pane. For a horrible moment he though she had left through the back door when he had let her go. It struck him how irrational he was being. Why would she go to the trouble of asking the priest for help when she could have left at any time? Why would she even tell him the man had been there if she was planning something? He felt her delicate hand on his back and he could have sworn that he felt the warmth of it through the thick cotton of his shirtsleeves.

"Erik? Are you all right?" why she sounded so concerned was beyond him. He certainly wouldn't have shown any sympathy for someone who had just screamed in his face for no reason, and yet she had taken his hand and lead him to his chair. "Erik, I'm sorry I let him in." She said kneeling beside him as he forced himself to breath regularly again. "I admit he was concerned about me but I convinced him that everything was fine, he seemed more interested in you to be honest."

"Fine? You call this fine?" he almost laughed at how absurd that sounded.

"It's better than before." She said simply, taking him by surprise once more, and he noticed that she had not let go of his hand. Like the rest of her it seemed too thin, the knuckles protruding a little too far to be considered healthy but it was still warm to the touch and gentler than anything he'd felt before. Could it be that she was actually wanted to be here? It made so little sense that he wasn't quite able to accept it.

"I'm sorry I shouted. That man just brought back a lot of things I would prefer to remain forgotten. Did I hurt you?"

"No, but next time make those kinds of accusations I'd appreciate it if you'd let me say my piece." She replied, it amazed him that she was standing up to him in her own calm manner. Before she could only stare at him in fright but perhaps the shock of his true identity had worn off and she was once again trying to converse with him the way they used to. Christine was never one to be overly dramatic or outgoing; it was one of the things he loved about her. And during her time with the corps de ballet she had always been the quiet one at the back. He knew she hated confrontations as they were the only times when she would act rashly, and they were mostly his own fault.

"I'm sorry. I honestly don't know what's wrong with me today." He did know, but he'd be damned if he confessed to it, she gave him a concerned look and for a moment it seemed as though she was about to question him but she thought better of it.

"Anyway, he said he would return in the morning. But I can send him away if you'd prefer." She told him, getting up from the cold flagstones to serve their meal, could they ever share a meal together without incident, he wondered.

"No, he's not the sot to give up easily. I might as well get it over with." He grumbled. They ate in silence for a while; she had made them a thick soup of ham and lentils. It was simple but delicious enough to spark his appetite, his attack had left him drained and while was not able to eat much he instantly felt better. "No doubt he's already told you about our unfortunate association." He said finally once he saw that she had eaten a sufficient amount.

"Only that he knew your family." She replied, "It's really none of my business, and you don't have to tell me anything if you don't want to."

"I don't remember much about that time; perhaps he can explain a few things." He began "All I remember is a mother who could not even look at me and a grandfather who left me in the care of that damned priest." Her eyes were glistening with unshed tears, perhaps from his confession or perhaps they were left over from his earlier outburst.

* * *

"Do you know, he was the one who first introduced me to music? He studied for a time before he received his great 'spiritual calling', as if anything could be more important than music!" He sneered sarcastically. His disdain for God unsettled her, as though he truly was one of the fallen. "Of course I was enraptured by it, I would have studied it all day if he'd let me. I learned to sing. But that wasn't enough for him. He wanted to use my voice to serve God. He wanted to share it with the world. So I made my debut during midnight Mass, in front of his entire congregation, I was seven. For one perfect moment, I could see their wonder, and in that moment I almost believed in God. But it wasn't enough. The crowd wanted to know where this voice was coming from, they wanted to see the angel and one of the boys in the choir ripped the mask from my face." She gasped at the thought, picturing Erik as a small child being subjected to such a humiliation and once again felt a terrible wave of regret at snatching his mask away that terrible morning. "You can probably guess what happened afterwards. I thought they were going to tear me apart. I was beaten to a bloody mess in God's own house. As I recovered I vowed to reject God and never to sing for Him again."

His eyes had darkened as he told his story, as though the memory was still as fresh as it had been the day it had happened. That event alone had been tragic but Christine had more than enough reason to believe that it was not the last incident of its kind. Watching him as he sat across from her retelling such a painful memory made him seem more real than he ever had been, more human, and she was once again reminded of how drawn he looked and wondering about the state of his health. If he truly was ill then he probably wouldn't admit it. He seemed to be preoccupied with maintaining the facade he had created, whether it was an angel or a ghost, neither of them was supposed to be fallible. She refused to think of what would happen if he too suddenly disappeared from her life, she was crying now, as though she couldn't hold her tears back any longer.

"How could they do such a thing? How could they do that to a child?" she whispered "How could I?"

"Because people want to know the truth, it's in our nature, even if the truth is painful." He replied simply.

"I've never truly apologised for hurting you like that. I had no right to do what I did. I was frightened and angry and I just needed to know who you were."

"You don't need to apologise, Christine. It was I who deceived you. I abused your trust."

"Why did you do it? Why did you lie?" he was silent for a long time before he finally answered.

"Because I wanted to mean something to you, I wanted you to love me. I was terrified that you'd grow to hate me if you knew the truth."

"I've never hated you, Erik"

The conversation ended abruptly as he left through the back door, saying something about needing to bring César in from the field and that there should be enough hot water if she wished to bathe. She wondered if she had said something wrong or whether he just needed some time alone. However the state of her hair made the idea of a proper bath seem quite wonderful and she was secretly eager to take advantage of the modern plumbing. As she stepped into the bathroom she noticed Erik's razor and shaving brush by the sink. She hadn't really taken note of them before; her anxieties were understandably focused on more important things. But seeing these mundane objects along with the two toothbrushes, she assumed the newer one was meant for her, and the jar of baking soda, brought an unusual sense of intimacy to their new living arrangement coupled with the nostalgic feeling of when it was her and her father. But Erik was not her father and as ignorant as she was about such things she knew he probably had more than violin concertos and fairytales on his mind. How could he expect such things when he couldn't even show her his face or even his hair? The sleek black of the wig he wore might have fooled her in the darkness of the cavern but in the daylight it looked unnatural, even a little comical, although it would be rude to tell him so.

The water from the hot tap was perfect in comparison to the jugs of freezing water she was used to washing with and she smiled at the oils and bath salts he had bought for her, as though he had thought of every detail of their life together. It unnerved he that she was beginning to think of them to. Hadn't he always been in her thoughts, even when Raoul had done his very best to get her to forget about her 'traumatic experience'. She had tried to think of what he life would be like once she married Raoul. In terms of material comforts she never want for anything, and she would never be without affection. But she would also have duties and responsibilities, she would always have to behave in a certain way, she would have to live with the polite but constant disapproval of her in laws and perhaps the whole of fashionable society and she in turn would have to be the perfect hostess to people she thoroughly disliked. The more she thought about it, the less she liked the idea, and the more she realised that she really didn't know Raoul at all, and he didn't know her. They had both changed so much since they last met. It had been wonderful to reminisce but in the end that was all they had. She had no interest in his business ventures or his love of hunting, and he probably found her terribly unladylike when she voiced her opinions on the situation in Ireland or Transvaal.

On the other hand living here with Erik provided an entirely different set of benefits and problems. Again she had no doubt that he would be able to provide for, although how he did so was a mystery to her. She would have the private and secluded life that she secretly craved and the freedom to study music and anything else he wished to teach her to her heart's content. How eager she was to access the depths of his knowledge. Like her father, Erik had always encouraged her to be well informed although as a child she hadn't always been quite so willing. But when he had disappeared all those long months ago she had truly missed the brilliance of his teaching that she had once taken for granted.

However there was the growing issue of his temper, that was both unpredictable and terrifying and although he had never raised his hand to her like some men did to their wives, she didn't exactly feel safe in his presence. The passion that he expressed at times, unsettled her, as though he might consume her entirely and she would never be able to escape from it. There was his face, which as much as she despised herself for doing so, still caused her to shudder with revulsion at the memory. If he would only put her fears to rest and allow her to get used to the deformity, perhaps it would not bother her so. And what of his past crimes, she did not know what he had done in his past exactly, but his reluctance to tell her set alarm bells ringing through her conscience. Could she live with the constant anxiety that they could be caught at any moment and separated forever, and what if her suspicions about him having some sort of illness were true? Could she truly give herself to someone and allow herself to love again only to have him leave her in the exact same way that her father had done. She could not go through with that again.

Realising that the water was beginning to grow cold she quickly washed her hair before drying herself off on one of the towels she'd found hanging on the back of the bathroom door and dressing in her nightgown from the evening before. Her room was freezing compared to the warmth of the kitchen and pulling on her dressing gown she decided to go downstairs for a while, at least until her hair dried. She quickly dragged a comb through her tangled curls, wondering briefly if Erik had returned but the sound of the piano downstairs gave her an answer. She couldn't help smiling at the sound, whatever her reservations about this strange man were she would always be completely at the mercy of his music.

* * *

She didn't hate him. He knew it was pathetic but that was closest thing to affection he had ever received from a woman, that and the hand holding. He had felt disappointed when she had let him go and her hand had left his. He had wanted to reach across the table and greedily snatch it back. He couldn't do that sort of thing anymore, it had been wrong of him to touch her before. In those moments of weakness he had taken advantage of the effect his music had on her and used it to steal a few precious caresses.

He loathed himself for what he had been planning that night he had taken her below the opera house. He could lie to himself and say that it had been a moment of pathetic desperation stemming from the jealousy he had felt at seeing the boy in her dressing room. But in truth he had been planning to take her down there for months, lovingly filling his lair with candles and rose petals to dazzle her with and building a bed for them out of the temple shell from Boito's Nerone and Dido's throne from Les Troyens. When she had fainted the gravity of his crime had struck him. How could a demon such as him defile an angel, not a false one like he'd claimed to be but a living breathing angel would could redeem him or destroy him with one word. He had burned the monstrous thing after she had left, as it had stood there in his room accusing him and the cold dead eyes of the doll silently judged him. Christine was not a puppet for him to control, that was not what he wanted and it was not what she deserved.

But moments of desperation aside, he knew full well that it was more than joys of the flesh that he craved, or he would have sought them out long ago, after all there were women who would be willing to overlook his mask and general unsightliness for the right price. But what he truly wanted was love, or more specifically her love in all its gentle and unconditional purity. It had always been something he'd dreamed of, after his mother's initial rejection of him there had always been an emptiness within him; a feeling that he was only half alive. Of course he wanted to lie with her, he wanted to make love to her for hours on end and make her his in every sense of the word, he was only a man after all. But he would probably be satisfied enough to simply be in her presence, as long as it filled the emptiness.

The emptiness had always conjured an image of his mother, cold and unmoving under the ice; perhaps that was why the doll had upset him so much. He had thought that perhaps having a likeness of Christine would satisfy his growing obsession with her. His watercolours and charcoal drawings were longer enough, he had needed to focus his passion on something larger and more permanent. Capturing impressions of her had become the closest thing he could get to being with her and for a while as he had worked with the wood and the clay he could almost imagine that it was really her that he was touching as the face began to take form. But a likeness meant nothing if the work had no soul.

So he had returned to her, knowing that there could be no alternative, no way to save her from his obsession. He clutched at every lesson they had together until it was fully engrained in his memory, he wanted to hold onto those precious moments forever. He would often keep her for longer than he needed to, saying she needed more practice. He monopolised her free time and coaxed every scrap of information out of her that he could, seemingly unable to rest until he possessed her every thought, her every memory and her every dream. And when her dreams had taken a more sensual turn, the desire had become almost unbearable. It was bad enough that she was constantly tormenting him in his conscious and unconsciousness mind but knowing that she had dreamed of him in the same way and the agony of knowing that it was not him that she dreamed but his voice and the lie he had created had made him snap. He had besieged her with questions. What happened then? How did you feel? And then her absolute trust in him had begun to wear away, and he realised too late that he had made a terrible mistake and that he would have to take drastic action if he was going to make her his.

His despair had become almost tangible as he returned to the house, and had brought forth new ideas and melodies in his overactive imagination. He went straight to the music room, not even bothering to remove his boots and let the music take shape. Whether it was through pleasure or through pain, Christine would always inspire him. Everything he'd written before her had merely been exercises, studies to prepare him for his true work. He had masqueraded around as the figure from her story for years and yet he had never failed to see the irony that it was she who was the true angel of music. Everything from the way she laughed to the rhythm in her steps was made of music and as much as the world would be missing out he selfishly revelled in the knowledge that this treasure, this living muse was here with him, and had chosen his music over what was right and good.

It didn't take long for the song to take shape, in his experience music could either be a struggle to obtain or could alternatively spring fully formed into the world in a sudden moment of epiphany. He knew the exact story it would work with, as he noted it down. He would have to search for the poem amongst the chaos of his books and papers. Back in his old home he had been familiar with the mess of his working space, knowing the exact location of his every possession amongst the clutter in a sort of filing system that only he understood. That was all very well, but the move had left him out of sorts and he couldn't find anything. It was odd living above the ground again. The daylight made him nervous, exposed. And while it was still dark for most of the day he knew it could not last with onslaught of spring with its bright clean sunshine and long evenings. Just the thought of it made the skin beneath his mask tingle. He remembered how his deformity had looked in the past and how it looked now; the incidents of life could be mapped across it if one took the time to look. The crooked line of his nose where it had been broken not once but three times, the ravaged socket of his eye where the Shah of Persia's men had ripped it out and the staring glass one that now took its place, the lesions from the dark helmet he had been forced to wear, the list was far too long.

He felt her presence in the room with him before he saw her. She was standing on the threshold wearing only her nightclothes with her damp hair hanging around her, looking a lot younger than her seventeen years. How could she contain the weight of the world within her eyes yet still remain as precious as a child? She had reached an age where it was no longer appropriate to wear her hair down like that and yet she did so anyway. He hoped she would always leave it down. He realised he had stopped playing was simply staring at her like a lecherous old fool. But she looked so ethereal behind the soft glow of her paraffin lamp, he had forgotten to light the lamps in his haste making hers the only light in the room, not that he needed it, compared to the thick and all encompassing darkness of the catacombs he found that even the moon, obscured as it was by murky clouds could provide him with ample light. The candles he had adorned his home with had mainly been for her benefit for light had been a precious resource and he rarely burned more than one candle at a time.

"Oh, please don't stop on my account." She said seeming embarrassed under his gaze, moving to sit on the newly upholstered sofa. "That was wonderful."

Instead of picking up where he left off, he swiftly got up from the piano and made his way across the room. "I'm so sorry; if I had known you were coming downstairs I would have lit a fire for you." He made short work of arranging the logs from the wood-basket in the hearth and soon orange flames began to dance from the kindling.

"Thank you, it is rather cold in here." She said. There was that smile again, the one she used to give him when she'd lower her eyes shyly. I felt so much stronger now that there wasn't a wall between them.

"I think I must be used to the cold, I hardly notice it anymore." He replied awkwardly. He was lying, he always felt cold.

"What was that piece you were playing just now?" she asked "Is it new? I don't think I've heard it."

"Yes." He said "Yes, it is new. It was just an idea though, I'm afraid I don't have anything finished yet."

"It sounded terribly sad, that's not like you at all. Will you finish it?"

She had noticed it straight away, the regretful tone of his thoughts had translated through to the piece. His work before had been laden with minor keys, but they had always been powerful and imposing. He had never been able to play his sorrow for her until now but it was too late and the barriers were already beginning to come crashing down.

"I really don't know. I thought it might be the beginning of another opera, but as I said it was only an idea."

"Another? So soon? I would have thought that after Don Juan you would have been quite exhausted."

"I am, Christine. But I feel as though this will be something entirely different." He was convinced of this. While Don Juan had been a bold debut, it had not been without its flaws. The libretto had been untidy and the farce scene had needed more work than he had time for. But this new opera would be different, and with Christine by his side.

"What will it be about." She slipped off the sofa to join him on the Persian rug, although whether it was because of her desire to be closer to the fire or her eagerness to hear his story he could not tell but he could smell the scent of roses and lavender when she was near.

"I'll be basing the libretto on a poem I came across in Russia. At the time the text had been banned but I had managed to get hold of a copy that had escaped the fires. It's about the Devil, being forced to wander the Earth alone since he was cast out from heaven. It is on the Earth that he falls in love with a beautiful young maiden. Her love almost brings him to the point of redemption but in the end he cannot deny his demonic nature and once kiss from his lips will end her life, carrying her off to heaven forever and leaving alone again for all eternity."

"I'm not sure if I like that story." Christine sighed staring into the flames, her expression unreadable. She must have been aware of the parallel with their current situation, for it was hardly subtle.

"Well, it's only an idea. Perhaps we could work on something a little more optimistic." He confessed.

"Will you teach me? To write music?" her eyes held a hopeful glimmer. He knew that her father had promised to do the very same thing, but had become too ill to fulfil it. It amazed him that all her reservations seemed to slip away when it came to the topic of music.

"You already know how to write music. You're always singing little songs to yourself." He allowed himself a small smile at her enthusiasm.

"But they're nothing special, and I have no idea how to finish them or arrange them, I wouldn't know where to begin." She giggled "Oh and you must teach me all about the other music, the music from your travels."

"Oh I must, must I? Well we'll certainly have a lot to occupy us, what with training your voice and composing and learning about eastern music traditions. Is there anything else you'd like me to teach you while I'm at it."

"Everything." She laughed. The sound was second only to her singing.

"Very well, I shall add 'everything' to out to do list as well."

"I've been thinking, if Father Bernard knew you from back then does that mean other people might know you as well?"

"I hadn't thought about that, I really don't remember being here." He was finding more and more that there were huge gaping holes in his memory. Had he simply not wished to remember them, or was it something else. It had never really bothered him since he had no reason to dwell on things like India or the Tonkin Gulf, but there were things that Christine wanted to know that he couldn't even begin to remember. Perhaps it was the morphine, or maybe he was simply getting old. "I suppose we should have a story to tell if we run into anyone."

"If you were here as a child and someone recognised you from then you could always say you have been working abroad all this time. That wouldn't be a lie." She said, gazing into the flames as the licked at the dry boxwood. The golden light seemed to give her an ethereal glow as it flickered on her hair and skin.

"No, that wouldn't be a lie at all. Not that it makes much of a difference. Most people probably wouldn't believe the truth if we told it to them."

* * *

Christine nodded as she tucked her legs underneath her. It was uncomfortable on the floor but neither of them thought to move and if the child from behind her was much to go on, then it probably wouldn't have been much of an improvement. It was terribly odd that she was sitting by the fire in only her nightclothes, talking so naturally with a man who had kidnapped her once. Before that night in the cellars the very suggestion of such a thing would have seemed scandalous to her. Perhaps a result of Mme Giry's over protectiveness or the lingering sense of duty to her angel who she had sworn her chastity to back when she though their music serve sort of higher purpose. That vow had been made on false pretences it seemed and had served no other purpose than to jealously keep her away from the young men at the opera. There had been such darkness within her on that first meeting, a darkness that she thought she had buried forever but had somehow clawed its way back to the surface. Raoul would never have suspected her to be capable of such feelings, women just didn't think that way, unless they were mad or ruined. But sometimes she could swear that Erik could see it as plainly as if it were written all over her face. "I know you," his eyes would say when he looked at her "I know what you are, I know what you can do." If anyone would understand it would be him, and perhaps that was the true reason she had gone with him, although more were appear every time she thought of her decision. Erik's stories spoke of otherness, of someone who lived separately from the world and was no longer confined by its rules. Perhaps he would be the one to hesitate in his judgement and be able to see the love behind the abomination. But she couldn't quite trust him, not just yet. There had been too many lies and betrayals already and while she trusted him beyond all reason as a teacher and as a fellow artist, she was unsure that she could give him that same amount of respect as a man.

"I was wondering, perhaps if it would be safe for us to go out one day." She suggested cautiously, they had been talking quite reasonably for the past few minutes but the memory of dinner was still raw and worrying as she knew his mood could change at any moment.

"I think it would be best if we kept to ourselves for a while, Christine. But you may take walks in the garden if you wish."

"Alright."

"Perhaps when it's safer for us to venture out we could take César up to the beach."

She smiled; at least he was open to the idea and wasn't planning on keeping her locked up here. Sometimes she felt as though he longed to be free from confinement as much as she did, maybe even more. But no one had forced him to stay underground like that so why would he live there for so long especially since he had travelled so extensively in the past. What had driven him to seek sanctuary down there?

"I'd like that. Father always loved the sea, I suppose it'll always remind me of him." She said "Perhaps it was because grandfather lived so far inland he had never seen it before he came to this country. But he would always write more when we were at Perros, and I could almost hear the waves in his music."

"Your father was an incredibly talented man, Christine. It's a shame that no one seems to remember his compositions."

"Do you know them?" she asked, her eyes widening slightly. Barely anyone had heard the music of Gustaave Daaé. The few concertos he had written had received mixed reviews and had experienced a respectful revival after his death only to fall once again into obscurity.

"I managed to find a few copies of his work, I believe they're out of print but there are still a few things that turn up." He explained. "I admit I'd only known of him as a violinist but after you told me about him I felt the need to study work after you told me about it. Your praise was certainly justified."

"Yes, he was wonderful. But he lost confidence in himself after my mother died. They wrote music together you know. She was his pupil. And instead of exchanging wedding bands they had two music boxes made, each played a song they had written for each other."

She had never really talked about her mother before, it had always been a painful subject for her father and he'd only ever reminisce about her when he'd had a few too many beers. Her mother had always been a shadowy figure; she had no real memories of her as such, just impressions and feelings. And her father had always made her seem so impossibly perfect that she might as well have been a character from one of his stories. Yes her mother had been the princess and he had been the poor violinist who rescued her. It wasn't anything as dramatic as that. But her grandparents had been well to do and they had been hoping for their daughter to make a sensible choice for a husband. They certainly hadn't wanted her to run off with some penniless piano teacher almost twenty years he senior, who had once been a notorious lover of bohemia. And they definitely hadn't wanted her to do such a thing when she was engaged to another man and about to be married that very morning.

She once again noted the similarities between her mother's story and her own. They had both felt the need to leave with their teacher and both of them had felt torn between what was expected of them and what they believed, even their ages were the same at the time of this momentous decision. Had her mother been as unsure as she was? If her mother had been alive the night her father died, would she have done the same thing?

"It's getting late." She said finally, realising she had been daydreaming again and the dim face of the clock on the mantel read that it was already eleven "I should probably be getting to bed."

"Yes." Erik said also glancing at the clock "We can begin your lesson after breakfast, and I'll try to find the your father's sheet music before then if you'd like"

"Yes, I'd like that very much...Goodnight Erik"

* * *

**A/N – So things are getting underway, there were more conflicts as per usual and some possible reconciliation? Yay XD. Everyone's after Erik it seems: the police, Mme Giry, Raoul, the managers. I was even going to add Nadir and the Shah to the mix but thought that would probably overcomplicate everything, so the passage I wrote for them might appear in another story. Or just sit in my fanfiction folder, gathering binary dust. O****n a completely unrelated note my room in France was full of stink bugs. They're a bit like scarab beetles but they spray you with a really disgusting almond-like smell if you upset them. I don't know where they came from but I spent ages trying to convince the little buggers that they'd be a lot better off on the outside of the window than on the inside.** But other than pest problems, France was really nice, and inspiring as usual. I was near Bergerac this time around but we decided to visit Chartres on the way back to Britain which is so pretty I could hardly believe it. The cathedral is just amazing and really worth a visit. They also opened up a new cave near to where my parents live, so being a massive dork I went down there, and at first it only looked like it was the size of my living room but then we went around a corner and it was just this forest of stalagmites and it went on for about a mile and there was an underground river and it was just freaking awesome, y'know proper underdark stuff. So yeah you could say the trip inspired me a little XD

**Here are some notes on some of the references:**

**Paul Lhérie was a tenor who was most well known for creating the role of Don José in Bizet's Carmen.**

**Les Troyens was an early work by Berlioz based on Virgil's Aneaid. I was just working on the logic that Erik probably cobbled that bed in the movie together at the last minute out of some old set pieces.**

**And the poem which Erik's new opera is based on is The Demon by Mikhail Lermontov, which I'd highly recommend reading. It's quite an underrated work of19th century Russian Romanticism and draws quite heavily on Milton and all those other Lucifer orientated epics.**

**Also, I forgot to mention this earlier but this story is set in 1881. Because the time period in the film was so wrong it wasn't even funny.**


	7. A Monkey Full of Morphine

**A Monkey Full of Morphine**

* * *

**Disclaimer – I don't own anything to do with Phantom and this story is purely for some nerdy escapist entertainment and not for profit.**

**A/N – Eep, its been a while since I last updated. I'm so sorry. Anyway this chapter contains some drug references. Again there's nothing too graphic but if you're easily wigged out then you have been warned.**

* * *

News had already spread amongst the residents of Regneville-sur-Mer that the Destler house had been sold. But that Sunday morning as they left the little windswept church by the castle ruins, they heard the faintest echo of music, the likes of which they hadn't heard in over thirty years.

The house had always been one of the town's mysteries. The building itself was fairly new but there were stories the original was once a monastery and that the present house was built from its ruins. The man who built it, a young architect by the name of Vincent Guillaume Destler, had intended it to be a summer home for his family. They had spent many summers there, but after his wife died during one of their sojourns he could no longer face visiting their little town and the house soon became abandoned. It wasn't until fifteen years later that the walls grew up around the forsaken place, seemingly overnight. And yet there were signs of someone living behind them for every day the most beautiful music could be heard from within. It drifted faintly down the hillside and echoed through the fields and to passersby it felt as though the music pierced their very souls. There were rumours that Destler had a grandson, who was an invalid of some sort but also a most promising child prodigy. Sometimes he could be seen out just before dawn, although his head was always completely covered, on the beach with young man who could have been his servant or a doctor of some sort and they would just watch the tide draw in.

But the summers rolled on and the little invalid boy stopped visiting Regneville, and those who cared to speculate assumed he was no longer of this world. But with the music in the air again, perhaps they had been wrong.

* * *

After their conversation the previous night Erik had rifled for the sheet music he had promised and skipped his usual dosage. The last time he had stopped his excursions into the realm of artificial pleasures the shock had been so terrible that he had blacked out for what seemed like several days. And while this latest habit had only lasted a few months while before he had been thoroughly addicted for the better part of a decade, he was becoming worried at how rapidly he had become dependent on it. He no longer wished to let the medicine govern his life, he hated how his mood changed if he was even an hour late with his next dose and in spite of his compulsions, he had long become aware that the solution no longer brought him joy. It was as though the past five years hadn't existed at all and he was a fugitive once more with a monkey full of morphia.

They had talked about music long into the night and about what she wished to learn. They had slipped back into their old roles so easily it was almost frightening. He knew it was probably the safest way to act around, keeping their relationship to something she felt comfortable with lest he frightened her away again. It was not enough, it would probably never be enough, but if it meant that she would sit by him and smile and laugh as she had done last night he would happily teach her everything he knew. He would scour the world's libraries for new things to teach her if he could catch another glimpse of her in her nightgown. While the infernal garment had revealed nothing but her feet it was what lay beneath it that set his imagination racing. On those fleeting occasions when he had held her she had been encased in coutil cotton and steel, but surely women did not wear such things to bed. And perhaps all the other baffling undergarments society compelled them to wear were absent as well. Perhaps it was only the linen against her skin and nothing else.

He hadn't thought about a woman so intensely since he was a youth. But before Christine there had never been any one individual who had occupied his dreams, they had mostly been imaginary, fleeting and ephemeral beings. It was that feeling of closeness that he dreamed about more than anything else, that acceptance that meant so much more than physical gratification. He had long since abandoned such hopes and soon the dreams had departed from his mind replaced with the familiar preoccupation with his struggle for survival. Before Christine, life had been one horrific event after another and it would probably continue in that fashion regardless but her presence alone seemed to make it bearable. Such things could no longer break him because for the first time in his life he felt as though he had something to live for. When she was near she made him want to be a better person, not the feral, lawless thing he had once been.

That had all been fine when she had been an awkward child with a beautiful voice but it was quite a different thing when she had grown into the goddess that currently slept in the room next to his. But having her here with him more than made up for any frustration he had been feeling. The house had been a monumental rush to prepare for her and was still unfinished in places. He had not been able to begin work on a study for himself and most of his portfolios and notebooks lay piled haphazardly in the corner of his room. He had spent so much time installing the back boiler on the old range that he hadn't been able to figure out a reliable way of lighting the house and they would have to make do with paraffin lamps and candles for now. He preferred it that way if he was completely honest with himself, for even before he had taken up residence in the opera house he had been a largely nocturnal creature. But all in all he had gone out of his way to ensure that she would be comfortable, that she would have warmth and space and hot water, all the things his previous home didn't have. The building had been in excellent condition with many features that were ahead of their time for somewhere so rural and perhaps and with the benefit of hindsight it really wasn't much of a surprise that his grandfather had built it. While he could not remember the man without a certain degree of contempt, he also couldn't deny the genius and innovation of the late Vincent Destler.

He had always thought that the man had intended to throw him out into the street after the final horror of his mother's death, but as memories slowly returned though the fog of his addled mind he began to doubt his childish assumption. Perhaps the walls had been added to the house with him in mind, to shut out the judging eyes of the outside world. Could his grandfather have acted with his best interests in mind? Or was he merely intending to shut him away after he had caused so much tragedy? His life had been a terrible one, filled with isolation, injury and murder. It had left him more disfigured than ever, both outside and in. But if he had not lived that life he would never have met Christine, so while he didn't exactly feel grateful for it, he didn't regret it either. He thought for a moment about what his life would have been like if he had not run away all those years ago. He might have been sent here, with Father Bernard or perhaps a nurse of some sort, quietly working on his music and drawings and knowing nothing about the outside world. He would never have known the stench of Venice or the desert wind. No, he would not have liked it. Even if the gypsy's cage or the Shah's torture chamber hadn't left him hateful of confinement, he would not have liked being stuck in this house. Even when he had deliberately shunned mankind and locked himself away below the opera house a part of him had always longed to feel the sun.

He lay awake for hours, unable to sleep because his body was screaming at him. Go to the monkey again. Go to the music room. Go to her! He chose music. So he sat at the cluttered desk in the corner, so that he wouldn't have to look at the dreaded music box and he tried to write down the piece from earlier before it faded like everything else. But his hands were already shaking and the notes soon deteriorated into an illegible mess. And it didn't help that the cymbals on that damnable thing had a habit of starting on their own accord, or perhaps he was just imagining it. He wouldn't yield, he had not come this far to be enslaved again by the God of dreams. But just the memory of withdrawal terrified him, and knowing what was about to come did nothing to ease the stress. It was truly the worst pain he had ever felt, in a physical sense at least, and this was coming from a man who'd had his eye ripped out and had lost a toe to frostbite, a man who had probably had more brushes with death than all the cats in Paris combined. But there had always been opium to relieve the pain, and once the relief was gone then it seemed as though a whole lifetime of pain would descend upon him. Eventually he gave up trying to write and sat on his hands stubbornly, praying for sleep but knowing it wouldn't come.

The night had been dreadful although not quite as bad as the last time he had been in this state. But once again it seemed as though his mind craved the thing that would eventually kill him if he carried on while his body tried desperately to flush out the poison. And now it felt like every drop of liquid had made a rush to evacuate, through his skin, nose and eyes, while the fever began take hold of him giving way to bizarre dreams in his trance-like state. He had been dreaming of her when Christine came knocking on his door that morning, she had been dancing in a sea of poppies like the fields of Afghanistan and the petals has risen up into a purple cloud and buried her as they fell. Was it normal to dream so much about what he craved? He awoke feeling disorientated at having passed out across the bed and seeing only the geometric flowers of the Persian carpet below him. He felt as though his head contained a swarm of bees, stinging him from the inside out, he felt as though he was on fire. As the second knock roused him further he felt a wave of nausea hit him as he began to ease himself out of bed only to fall into a miserable heap on the rug. Then in one horrible moment he realised that he had forgotten to lock his bedroom door and one glance across the room confirmed that his mask and wig still lay on his desk where he had discarded them the night before when the sweating became too much. Dear god, he couldn't let her come in and see him like this. It was bad enough that she had already seen the horror that was his face, but see him in such a pathetic state was beyond mortifying. He made a move to stand up but the pain was too great and that sick feeling resurfaced along with another wave of panic as the door opened.

* * *

_It's time Christine. Can't you hear the death knell?_

Christine awoke to the sound of bells whose echo reached the length and breadth of the village and the dry harbour beyond. He pillow was damp with tears which continued to fall. Her dream had been very similar to the last one, on the train. But this one had not been interrupted and as she had pulled the sheet away from the dying figure on the bed it had been Erik's face staring back at her, unmasked and scarred beyond belief instead of her father's sad smile and pale drawn skin. She had not been to a real church in many years, the disused chapel below the academy dormitories hardly counted as a place of worship anymore, and while she wasn't Catholic like the other girls in the ballet it was still no excuse. The truth was that as a child attending her father's funeral it had felt as though God might strike her down at any moment for defiling His house. That fear had stayed with her until the angel had come to her, but now there was no angel and she was as guilty as ever.

It was almost seven, and the Sunday Mass was just beginning, which meant that the priest who had visited the day before would be returning soon. She quickly washed and dressed before heading downstairs for breakfast, trying to put the dream from her thoughts. But such thoughts would not leave her when Erik was nowhere to be found. After checking the house and garden, she only had one room left, a room that frightened beyond all sense of rationality. She desperately hoped that he had simply gone out for a while, perhaps to buy more bread, but he had looked so ill yesterday and behaved so strangely that she felt compelled to check his room. The image from her nightmare was still fresh in her mind and she trembled a little at the thought of finding him in such a deteriorated state. She took a deep breath before knocking on his door. After a few moments without a reply she knocked again hearing a slight movement within this time. There was a muffled groan followed by a dull thud as though something heavy had dropped to the floor.

"Erik? Erik!" she called out her heart beating wildly with a sudden panic. She ignored any sense of propriety and opened the door, which thankfully hadn't been locked.

She had almost expected Erik's bedroom to be a replica of the one she had slept in that night below the opera house, with its dark velvet hangings and its large and heavily ornate bed, but instead she was faced with a room like any other. There were a few items that had been brought there from the catacombs, the music box with the monkey on it rested on a shelf at the far end of the room and there were a few statues and figurines on the desk and shelves that looked familiar, seemingly gathered from some distant part of the orient. But the walls were a plain white and the furniture was simple and made of dark wood, including a sleigh bed that lay unmade and empty against the wall to her right.

Suddenly a terrible retching noise came from the other side of the bed, bringing her back into the present. She dashed across the room to where Erik lay curled up on the floor shivering and clutching at the empty chamber pot as though it were a lifeboat on a stormy sea. She reached him just as he vomited into the while enamelled bowl, still shivering like he was out in the frost while his shirt was drenched with sweat. He was wearing the same clothes he had worn yesterday, she noticed, and they were so dishevelled it looked like he had slept in them it he had slept at all.

"Erik? Erik, what's wrong?"

"Don't look at me, Christine." He managed to gasp out. Even though the deformed side of his face was facing away from her, his hand instinctively reached up to hide it. She had been so anxious about the kind of state he was in she hadn't even noticed that he wasn't wearing his mask. Of course he wouldn't wear it while he was sleeping, or perhaps he didn't wear it at all in private and the mask was only for her benefit. The thought made her incredibly guilty. "Go back to your room! You shouldn't have to see this."

"But you're ill." She said crouching down and reaching out to touch his shoulder but he flinched away from her until his back hit the wall behind him.

"I said, get out!" he shouted, or at least attempted to shout but his voice was very weak. "Now if you'll just give me a moment to get cleaned up I'll be down shortly."

"Like hell you will! You need rest, and a doctor by the look of things." she cried angrily, the dream was too vivid and still lay fresh in her mind along with too many unpleasant memories and she was in no mood for his ghastly temper. She picked up the white mask from where it lay on the mahogany desk and threw it at him, missing his head by a few inches to her disappointment. "Take it; if that's what you're so worried about, not that it makes any difference." He looked back at her in a stunned silence, and it he hadn't looked so miserably unwell she might have laughed at the reaction. She also noticed for the first time that he wasn't wearing a wig and that his hair was not the deep black she had grown used to but brown like her own, but perhaps a little fairer and thinning around the place where his hairline met his deformity.

"As much as I appreciate your concern, Christine, I assure you I'm absolutely fine. I don't need a doctor." Erik replied, after turning away briefly to fix the mask in place. The change was instant, as though the mask could hide his outburst as well as his face. Unconvinced, Christine knelt beside him, raising a hand to his forehead.

* * *

Erik flinched at her touch, remembering what had happened the last time she had touched his face. But her fingers felt wonderfully cool against his skin and he couldn't help but lean in to her touch as though he were some sort of pathetic dog begging for her attention. She had said the mask didn't make any difference. Well what the hell did that mean? Was his face so hideous that it couldn't be unseen? Did the rest of him look so terrible in his current state that the mask was rendered practically useless? Or did he dare to imagine that his face held no fear for her. He certainly wasn't used to her arguing with him, let alone using curse words. But she had always thought he was an angel before, so she had been a lot more respectful. Now she was seeing him as a man, perhaps even as an equal, which more than he could ever have hoped for.

"Erik, you're burning up. I think you might have a fever." She said, taking her hand away much to his dismay.

"I told you, there's nothing wrong." He said weakly, cursing that moment of weakness all those months ago that had put him in this situation. If he had only been stronger he might not have killed again. But instead he was crouched on his bedroom floor feeling like death and vomiting in front the woman he loved. If she hadn't been utterly repulsed by him before, she definitely would be now.

"If you won't see a doctor then at least let me take care of you." She pressed, "Why don't I draw you a bath? You'll feel so much better."

Take care of him? Now that was an offer he couldn't refuse. No one had ever voluntarily cared for him before, not that he hadn't fantasised about some caring soul nursing him back to health the numerous times he had found himself injured and that one time he caught malaria in Siam, now that was something he didn't wish remember. Needless to say the thought of Christine fussing over him all day was incredibly appealing. He just wished he felt well enough to enjoy it.

The bath did help to ease his aching joints and muscles as well as warm the chill that had been gripping his body. He returned to his room to find the sheets changed and all signs of the previous night had disappeared. It felt incredibly unusual to find that such a personal task had been done by another. While he had often dreamed of someone taking care of him when he was a child, as an adult it felt awkward and a little embarrassing. She certainly couldn't have enjoyed doing such a thing, and what if she'd stumbled upon his glass eye collection when she was looking for the spare bed linens, or his pocket knife, or that sketch he'd made of her in her underclothes. In fact his room contained quite a few things that weren't exactly suitable for young ladies.

He glared at the monkey accusingly but knew he had no one to blame for the humiliation but himself.

After dressing he found her in the kitchen, stirring a saucepan filled with porridge. The house was so cold that the milk had kept for an extra day, but all that would change when summer came around. She seemed to sense his presence before he had even made a sound and wiped her face on the apron she was wearing. When she turned her eyes were red and it was obvious that she'd been crying.

"You should have stayed upstairs, I was going to bring you breakfast." She said, with a smile that seemed as though it was forced.

"Thank you, but I'd rather stay downstairs." He replied sitting down at the kitchen table despite his discomfort at all the heat the range was belching out. For the past few hours his body didn't seem able to settle on what temperature it wanted to be. He hoped to whatever cruel deity was out there that he wasn't sweating again, but his mask was already beginning to feel heavy and unbearably hot. They ate breakfast in silence. Perhaps it was because she had been taught to cook properly, or perhaps it was just because it was her that had prepared it but the food tasted better than anything he had ever made. But his culinary education had been largely trial and error and up until his return to France had largely involved small game and camp fires. He could only manage a few mouthfuls however, but realised he had drunk the whole pot of tea which earned him a concerned look.

"How are you feeling?" she said finally.

"Better thanks to you." He replied, although in reality it felt as though it was about to get much worse. But he felt an odd feeling of relief that he had been able to set things in motion, he might feel terrible now but in a week or two he would be able to start the new life he had planned. A life filled music and Christine's perfection.

"You don't look any better. Are you in pain? Can I get you anything?"

"It's really not as bad as it looks, Christine. I'll be fine in a few days, I promise you." He said, but the fearful look in her eyes broke his heart. He wished he could explain everything to her, but then he would have to tell her the reason why he become this way and terrible things he had done because of it. "But perhaps, if you wouldn't mind...would you sing for me?"

* * *

Christine had slipped back into the role of nurse so easily that it was hard to believe that she'd ever stopped. But keeping herself busy seemed to be the only thing that could stave off the rising tide of panic that threatened to envelope her. This situation was too familiar, and had hit a raw nerve that had been left exposed ever since she's discovered that the angel was a lie. She had cleaned the room quickly then taken all the used linens and clothes she could find down to the scullery, planning to soak everything in water and soda crystals that night so that they could be washed properly the next morning. It had been so long since she had done her own laundry, the ballet academy had a small kitchen and cleaning staff but the girls had been responsible for keeping the dormitories clean which was organised by rota. Mopping floors had always been dull and tiring but Meg would always find a way to make it fun.

The opera house felt as though it was a million miles away and she longed to be back there with Meg and her mother with a sudden intensity. They had been the ones, who had truly been there for her when there was no one else, they were the closest thing she had to a family not counting the grandparents she had left behind in Sweden, and she felt wretched for leaving without saying goodbye. What had she been expecting, that she and Erik would simply talk a while by the lake and that everything would be fine? It had been a reckless and foolish decision and she now felt like she was in over her head. Of course there was always a chance that it was only a simple fever and she was worrying over nothing. But that part of her that had grown to know him over the years could tell that there was more to it than that, and the sick feeling of realisation similar to when she had first suspected his true identity. She had remained in denial for a long time, but she couldn't this time, for something seemed very wrong. Something about what he'd said before about making one last attempt at a normal life. When she put it in perspective she didn't like how that sounded at all. That cellar couldn't have been a healthy place to live, with all those rats and sewers. What if the lake had carried some sort of terrible disease? The thought of him living in such awful conditions brought tears to her eyes. It had all seemed so beautiful that night, but the candlelight and roses had hidden a world of complete darkness.

She could live with him quite contentedly she had discovered. As a teacher, he was quite extraordinary and she felt privileged even to scratch the surface of his genius, she could listen to his voice all day long and still hang on his every word. She could even imagine them growing closer given a little time, she couldn't deny the attraction she felt towards him and if they could only learn to trust one another then she could very easily come to care for him as more than a teacher. But this man had deceived her, broken her dreams of salvation and her father's memory, he had abandoned her at the first sign of her defiance and now if she was correct in her suspicion he was going to leave her forever, which was perhaps the cruellest thing of all. She couldn't do this; she couldn't go through this again. She felt cursed, as though everyone she gave her heart to would eventually leave in one way or another. That was why her relationship with Raoul had felt so safe. It wasn't his promises to protect her or his calm demeanour or even the memories they had shared together. It was the fact that her feelings had never extended beyond a gentle fondness. So that when his parent's opposed their engagement, or if his passion for her cooled or his fickle heart moved on to another, her heart would remain intact. She felt terrible for feeling that way. She was such a liar.

For a moment she wanted to leave that house forever, to take the priest up on his offer of help and return to Paris. That would certainly be the sensible thing to do. There would probably be scandals if she returned to work, which probably wouldn't hurt her singing career much but Raoul would probably break off their engagement after he found out she had willingly run away with another man. And she would have to continue to sing minor roles and tolerate La Carlotta's foul attitude and histrionics and live with the overwhelming guilt of once again being responsible for the destruction of another human being. That was something she definitely couldn't do. She couldn't just leave Erik here, to let him lose whatever shred of faith he had in the human race and to possibly to die alone in this empty little town. The only option in her mind was to stick with her choice, and if he truly was dying as she suspected then she would give him that normal life that he so desperately wanted.

* * *

The walk up to the top of the hill was harder now and each time Father Bernard made the journey to the Destler house past the end of the Chemin des Monces, he was reminded of how the years had flown by. So many years had been lost, so many failures. Since the downfall of the family he had once been so close to, he had lost his faith in his calling and his fellow man. For many years now, he had been going through the motions of his profession while secretly harbouring a certain degree of resentment.

He had left the church as soon as he could. Normally he would stay and chat with his friends from the village, listening to the news from people's relatives in Montmartin and Hauteville and discussing whatever trivial moral dilemma they had had that week. Today he knew exactly what the gossip would be about and wished to have no part in it. Many of the older residents could remember the time when he and Erik had travelled up from Rouen to spend their summers in the therapeutic sea air, and while they had never seen him in person, they remembered they music. In a way Erik had somehow worked his way into the local folklore, there were traces of him all over the coastline where children would make up stories about the haunted house and the ghost who played the piano.

Stories like that had always upset him in the past, after Erik's trail had run cold in Paris he had been inconsolable and the boys grandfather had never been the same. Perhaps the old man had realised the consequences of his coldness, that after years of blaming the child for his daughters dark fate, Erik had turned out to be his only link to her, and his only legacy. He had died with that guilt upon his shoulders, that much had been clear when he sold the house he was now approaching for a fraction of its worth to the first person who'd take it. He felt glad that they building now belonged to its rightful owner, but there was still so much to put right.

But now that he had met the man that Erik had grown into, he knew things would not be so easy. It was not hard to see that this man had gone through more than he could possibly imagine. And then there was the girl. While he had been convinced that she was not in any kind of danger and a part of him was relieved that his former ward had found someone who seemed to regard him with genuine respect and admiration, he couldn't help but worry about the pair. Something seemed wrong between them, but if Erik's temper was anything like what he had witnessed it was no wonder the relationship seemed strained and he had not even seen the two of them together.

He was greeted by the lilting sound of folk music as he neared the garden gate. After waiting at the door for a long time, he soon found himself being ushered into the music room by a welcoming yet highly strung Christine who left him alone with the masked man after briefly returning with a tray of the fragrant tea she had served him the day before. He couldn't even fathom the change in the man before him. While Erik had not looked particularly well the last time he had visited, he had looked like a pinnacle of athleticism compared to his current state as he lay on the leather sofa. His skin had turned an unhealthy grey, he was shivering and twitching uncontrollably and his eyes and nose were streaming.

"You look shocked, Father." The younger man said seeming slightly amused in spite of his obvious discomfort. "Do I really look that bad?"

"If you're not well, perhaps I should come back another time." He stammered, Christine had warned him that he was ill, but nothing could have prepared him for this.

"There's nothing wrong with my ability to talk; so perhaps we should just get this over with."

"Very well, if you're sure. But I could have a word with the doctor if you'd like."

"I don't need a doctor." Erik snapped. "I'm not ill."

"Well there's a young woman out there who seems to disagree. Don't you think you should put her mind at ease at least?"

Erik sat up and peered out the window where Christine sat dejectedly on the old swing they had made together when he had been a child. It was a wonder that the thing had lasted so long, and the rope seemed to have become consumed with ivy where it had been tied to the branch. She had the look of a Pre-Raphaelite painting with her hair loose and the hem of her pale grey dress touching the snowdrops that had broken free of the frosty ground. It was clear that Erik had also noticed her sadness and he sighed unhappily.

"Fine, do as you must. Now remind me again why you're here."

"You've been missing for so long now; can you blame me for wanting to know how you've been? Whether you came here for a purpose or were merely brought here by fate, your reappearance seems nothing short of a miracle." Bernard replied. "And I also came here to discuss your inheritance..."

* * *

**TBC**

**A/N – So Erik is even grumpier than usual and finding it hard to accept any help. And Christine is under the impression that he's about to die a slow and lingering death much like her father, also drawing up some major abandonment issues there, that can't be healthy. Oh the misunderstandings. But then I personally think the chances of Erik and Christine having a smooth relationship is utterly impossible. I tried to get everything as accurate as possible, but having never personally experienced the effects of addiction or detoxing it was pretty damn hard to write. Still I hope it was convincing enough. Things are going to start moving forward quite soon in terms of the plot so watch this space and I'll try and be less horribly slow at writing.**

**Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed and favourite the story so far, it really means a lot. You guys are awesome, hope you had a wonderful Easter, and as always reviews will earn you much lovings. **


	8. The Broken Box

**The Broken Box**

* * *

**A/N – Whoops well it's been a while hasn't it. I'm so very very sorry for taking so long. This story is a fickle one, sometimes I'm churning out five thousand words in one go and sometimes I get nothing for weeks, but I will persevere. It's a pretty short chapter, I'm afraid and I shall be attempting to write an additional two chapters while I'm away to make up for the delay this month. But the awesome news is that I will be in France again next weel (for longer than three days this time as well XD) And France generally means creative output. I got the idea for the story there, so hopefully that shall continue.**

**Disclaimer – I don't own Phantom or any of its adaptations. This fic is for entertainment purposes and not for profit.**

* * *

Raoul turned let the door swing open with a tired creak. The police had quickly dismissed Christine's room as a source for evidence but he refused to believe this. There must have been something, some clue or indication to who that man was. His presence in the academy dormitories left him a little nervous, all the dancers were at rehearsals for the reopening of Don Juan but there was still the risk of being detected. It would not be the wisest thing to get caught in the room of a girl who was missing and presumed dead.

He had never seen her bedroom before, even the night he stood guard at her door, and he was shocked at how small it was. It was barely more than a cupboard. Had he known that she slept in such a desolate place, he would have insisted on renting a house for her so she'd never have to return. Why didn't she tell him? Any other girl in her position would jump at the chance to get away. Still it was better that she had a room of her own, no matter how tiny it was, than sleep with the multitude of dancers in the dormitories. He briefly wondered why she had been separated from the other dancers in the dormitories, but regardless of the cause he was certain that monster had used her isolation to his advantage.

He pushed away the memory of that night, feeling as though he might break down again if it lingered too long in his mind. Never before had he felt so truly powerless. So foolish. And that music, that damned music that wouldn't leave him no matter how much he despised the composer. It had been the music that had made her hesitate; it was the music that had stolen away. The music was the one thing that man possessed that Raoul could not even begin to compete with and he hated it. He had thought that he had come to accept that he would never be much of a musician, content to express his love of the medium through his patronage and through simply enjoying the performances as a spectator. But that music had brought back unhappy memories. Just like her father all those years ago, Christine and that creature shared something that he would never truly be able to fully understand. They could make angels weep while he could only accompany tone deaf debutants as they sang after dinner.

She must have left some sort of clue, a diary perhaps or a letter. His heart leapt when he saw the small leather bound notebook on the shelf above her bed wedged between a Bible and a copy of Frithiof the Bold. But instead of the girl's darkest confessions the book merely contained her carefully written notes from her lessons. Christine clearly wasn't much of a diary keeper. He was about to place the notebook back on its shelf when he noticed the loose sheets of writing paper that were beginning to fall out the back. They were still in Christine's hand but the corrections were in that strange clumsy handwriting and red ink that he had seen in the mysterious notes he and the managers had been receiving.

After all of the disgusting and ungodly things he had imagined that creature doing, it came as a bit of a shock to realise that he had actually been teaching her. The Opera Ghost had actually given her homework. He almost laughed at the thought of the beast skulking in his lair correcting her grammar but choked on it knowing that regardless of the innocence of such an action the monster certainly wasn't setting essay questions now.

There had to be something else. The room was beginning to make him feel claustrophobic. He moved to the small chest of drawers in the corner which doubled up as a dressing table for on top of it stood her mirror, her comb, her cheap lavender hair oil and her jewellery box which looked as though it had been smashed to pieces then painstakingly glued back together again. He opened it slowly, finding that the lock had been broken beyond repair. The word "Ängel" had been painted on the inside of the lid and inside it lay dozens of dried roses, the flowers carefully pressed and removed from their stems.

What on earth did it mean? Why would she keep something so trivial? And why had she never kept any of the flowers he'd given her? Why did she only have her three old dresses in her room when he had practically ransacked the House of Worth for her? Why did she not keep the jewellery he had bought her in such a tender manner? And why on earth would she go to such trouble to repair a box that looked like someone had taken a hammer to it. Raoul began to feel the increasingly familiar stirrings of jealousy in his heart. As much as he tried to reason that his gifts were probably too valuable to be left in the academy dormitories, those dancers could be a disreputable crowd after all, he could not stop thinking about her and that monster onstage and how thoroughly enraptured she had looked.

He was about to leave when he noticed the letter that had fallen from the many folds of her dark cloak.

_We cannot tear out a single page from our life, but we can throw the whole book into the fire._

_Forgive me_

_Christine _

* * *

Erik had tried to concentrate on what the priest was saying but his head felt like it was encased in ice and the ringing in his ears had become insufferable. There was something about being entitled to what remained of his grandfather's fortune, although he couldn't remember the exact sum. But how on earth would that work, he had no way of proving his identity. Well there was one way, and there was no way he would ever do something like that. Everything hurt, and he wanted nothing more than to go back to bed but he knew the monkey would be there waiting for him and he was far too weak.

The voice from his past soon left with the parting message that the doctor would be with him that afternoon and that he would send someone from the farm to take care of Cesar. True to his word he soon heard voices outside but couldn't move from the foetal position he had curled into. He was glad the old man had thought to take care of his horse, well not exactly his horse but the two of them had been together since he returned to the opera house, he had not thought that far ahead in his spur of the moment sobriety and Christine didn't know the first thing about caring for the creature.

He found it amusing how the opera ghost's horse was probably the sweetest natured creature in all of Paris, possibly rivalling Christine in that respect. When he was still being used for stage performances he would tolerate the younger ballerinas with the patience of a saint in exchange for sugar and apples. He was afraid of the dark and practically had a nervous breakdown if he was left alone for too long. Not phantom-like at all.

But the thought of another visitor, even if it was only to the barn in the courtyard almost paralysed him. If he couldn't handle this then how was he supposed to let a doctor into his house? It took him almost five years to show himself to Christine and now he had to deal with a physician who would ask endless questions and examine the mottled mass of scar tissue he had become. Perhaps he should just ask the man to leave; he would be able to function again soon, at week at most, then he'd make it up to her.

He peered out from behind the curtain to see Monsieur Delmas the farmer he had agreed the food deliveries with, leading Cesar through the front gates and breathed a sigh of relief that he was leaving. It was better that Delmas decided to come out here himself than to send one of his sons or farmhands. It would not do to have their youth and beauty remind her of the boy she left behind and rethink her choice to come here.

He staggered up the stairs trying not to look at his bedroom door and rifled through the medical cabinet. If there were going to be more visitors then he would have to make sure that he was not phantom-like at all either. He had forgotten the bottle of laudanum that had somehow found its way into the collection. He had not used tinctures in many years, preferring the quick and relatively painless stab of the syringe. His first reaction was to down the entire bottle, without a care for how old it was or what other chemicals could have seeped into it, but his hands were still shaking so much that the brown glass bottle soon crashed into the sink and smashed in half. The sound brought him back to the task at hand and he quickly turned on the taps to wash away the evil liquid before finding the bandages at the back of the cupboard. He had to work quickly; he could already hear her on the stairs, undoubtedly to investigate the sound of breaking glass.

* * *

She tapped nervously on the bathroom door. How many times was this going to happen? How many times would he lock her out and leave her in the dark, expecting the worst? Although she had been informed by Erik's clergyman friend with a reassuring smile that a doctor would be on his way it did little to ease her worries. In her experience doctors only ever seemed to be the bearers of bad news.

"Erik? Are you all right?" she called through the door and jumped when the lock clicked, the door swinging open to reveal not an angel or even a phantom but someone else entirely. The coarse, dark wig had been removed once again and Christine felt a strange urge to reach up and run her fingers through it. The mask was gone too, replaced instead by a linen dressing held on with bandages. It didn't reveal any more of his face than before but the effect seemed far less frightening somehow. He could easily pass for a veteran soldier. But what on earth was it for? Had his mask been broken somehow, was that what the crashing noise was? Had he had an accident and injured himself while she had been outside? There was no sign of blood, but nevertheless she felt the guilt creep up upon her at the thought of such a thing, and all because a few bad memories and dreams had spooked her.

"Erik, what have you done to yourself?" she said, her voice reduced to a frightened whisper.

"This is how I look when necessity demands that I deal with the outside world." He replied calmly "I suppose it's the closest I can get to appearing forgettable."

She smiled nervously, realising that this and their encounter earlier that morning were closest she had come to seeing Erik as he truly was. She wasn't sure whether to be elated or worried, for he must surely be in terrible pain for him to let the mask slip. "I find it rather hard to believe that anyone could forget you, Erik." She said and flushed slightly with embarrassment when she realised what she had said. "Will you be able to see alright?" she asked, changing the subject as she noticed that the dressing covered his right eye completely.

"I think I'll manage." He replied with a wry smile, perhaps he was so used to living in darkness that a slight visual impairment was no longer a problem. Perhaps he found the daylight too bright after living in that awful place for so long. The mere thought of that dungeon with its rats and filthy waters brought the sting of tears to her eyes but she refused to cry again. She no longer cared aout the things Raoul had accused him of, if the worst should happen the least she could do was provide the ordinary life he seemed to want so badly. It wasn't much to ask, hardly anything compared to what he had done for her.

"The man who was here just now brought us some eggs. Are you up to eating something?" she said changing the subject.

"I am if you are."

* * *

Half an hour later and she was serving cheese omelettes, slightly burned at the edges and a little rubbery and overcooked but still edible. The range would take some getting used to as she probably hadn't cooked anything since moving into the dormitories and he had never owned such a contraption before. There was no way of transporting something so heavy underground without assistance and no way to ventilate his lair without drawing attention to himself. So on those rare occasions when he needed to cook something he would make do with an alcohol stove. And if he was in need of a heater he would have to do without. He realised that Christine was probably the first person to ever cook for him, or at least the first who wasn't employed to do so. And for that reason alone the meal was wonderful and he was able to force down more than half of it, when food was the last thing he wanted. She had also made him another pot of tea which he drained before it had even had time to cool.

He noticed that she had not eaten much either, but it was a start at least. He remembered from the last time he had kicked the habit that his appetite had suddenly grow n from nonexistence to a ravenous monster. He had gorged himself on bread and cheese and cold cuts and tea and coffee and music and her, her more than anything else. As long as she was here with him in this house his resolve would not waver.

He had felt it earlier that morning as she sang for him. Her voice always seemed to make all his troubles fade away. Her bittersweet folksongs eased the furious pain that wracked his body and staved off the hideous memories. He had never thought much about how one person could inspire another; truthfully he'd never had the opportunity to be inspired by anyone. But he had become aware that everything he had written without her was completely dreadful as was everything he had written under the influence. There was scores in his portfolios that made no sense at all and were so hard on the ear that it wouldn't have surprised him if the listener developed a headache by the end. And that damned second act of his opera. He was still teaching when he wrote the finale which had been glorious but it had fallen in the middle, it was too full of spite and fury. It was better than no emotion at all; the production was anything but mediocre but if unsettled him and if an opera could make its composer uncomfortable then what chance did the audience have. Somehow Christine had helped him refine his music and bring order to the chaos he created.

It was ironic that she was able to do such a thing when she was the root of that chaos. Even now that he had her she still continued to infuriate him with her naive ambiguity. His mask made no difference to her? What on earth was that supposed to mean? She found it hard to believe that someone could forget about him? Was that a good thing or a bad thing?

"Are you feeling alright?" her voice pulled him from his thoughts, and his eye darted to meet her glance.

"Pardon?"

"You looked like you were miles away." She clearly had no idea how much she affected him. Just one look in his direction could paralyse him, where one part of his heart was doing summersaults and the other half was frozen with fear in case she should suddenly realise what he was and run from him again. He had felt the same way on the train, unaccustomed to having someone look at him in such a benign yet curious manner. The mask might not have been there at all for the difference it made. For it was not his face that he had been hiding all those wasted years but himself as a whole and his every being, every movement and every gesture could be seen by her. All these things could reveal something far worse than a mere deformity. Compared to her he was merely a thing of shreds and patches, a tattered old burnt out mess riddled with scars and traumas that would make a soldier weep. She had already peeled away the mask once but soon she would unveil the true distortion.

"I'm just tired I suppose." He said.

"Yes, I barely slept at all last night. Perhaps we should go to bed early after the doctor's seen you."

She said "we". He knew she didn't mean it in the way he wanted but the word alone made him shiver, and try as he may he couldn't blame it on the withdrawals. How pathetic, that a mere grammatical association could affect him so much. It seemed as though the tiniest thing could set him off as he was caught permanently between his desperation for any sort of human affection and his blind terror of mankind at large.

"Yes, perhaps...we should." He agreed, putting a little too much emphasis on the 'we' and wanting to kick himself for sounding so horribly suggestive and he could see by her blush and the awkward silence that followed as she pushed her food around her plate that she had noticed. To his immense gratitude there came a knock at the front door and as he watched her scurry away to answer it, Erik wondered if there would ever be a time when he would be able to go near her and not ruin everything.

* * *

"So, you're the prodigal grandson are you?" said the bespectacled old man who called himself Dr Bordasse. They had the library to themselves now that Christine had left them alone for the examination and Erik was practically hyperventilating again. He didn't necessarily have anything against the man, but he feared scrutiny of any kind and doctors had a way of scrutinizing you.

"You knew my grandfather?" he looked up, unsettled that the people in this remote little town seemed to know more about him than he did. That damned priest must have told everyone who'd listen.

"At the very end, yes, not that it counted for much. I see the resemblance though." The older man replied and began to open the leather bag he had brought with him. "So, what seems to be the problem, Monsieur?"

"Well, doctor, I seem to have found myself at the end of a rather unfortunate addiction."

"Ah, let me guess...morphine, am I correct?" he smirked and raised a grey eyebrow at Erik's amazed expression. "I used to treat the soldiers for it back in the day. Were you in the war Monsieur?" his black little eyes darted to the dressing making Erik feel as though he could see right through it into the empty eye socket and out the other side.

"I was in _a_ war."

"I thought as much, I have a theory that it's the injuries combined with highly stressful living conditions that bring about these things. Is this the first time you've tried to stop."

"No, this is the second time I've tried."

"Ah then you'll know what to expect." The doctor said cheerfully. "I probably won't be able to tell you anything new, just make sure you drink plenty of water, take warm baths and I'm aware that the last thing you probably want to do is eat but you must keep your strength up. Are you prone heart problems or convulsions?"

"I don't think so."

"And just how long have you been...medicating yourself, Monsieur Destler?"

"About four months. Prior to that, I hadn't taken anything in three years. And before that I was using opium for about ten years."

"Three years? That's very good for a first attempt, although it's unlikely that this will be your last. You're probably aware that many people in your position struggle with this their entire lives."

"Well, what do you suggest I do?"

"Not much, I'm afraid. I can't really suggest that you take anything for the pain that would be counterproductive. Simply wait it out, try to keep yourself busy and avoid things that previously provoked you to consumption. So I suppose moving to new place with a new wife will serve as a pleasant distraction from such things." Erik flinched a little at the comment, he was aware that the old man was probably making an assumption but it only served as a stinging mockery. She was more than he deserved and they both knew it.

After Bordasse had checked his arms for infection along with his heart and his breathing, the ageing doctor left with a discreet assurance to Christine that all would be healed before the week was out.

And it would be a difficult week for all involved.

* * *

**To be continued...**

* * *

**A/N – So how will Raoul react to the note? And its only a matter of time before Christine puts two and two together...and comes up with ten. And now to get my arse in gear for the planned double chapter. Wish me luck XD. And of course reviews are always awesome and give me the drive to continue writing.**

**A few more historical notes for you.**

**-The House of Worth was an Haute Couture fashion house that was one of the leaders of high fashion in the late 19th century. It's also worth noting that Christine's dress from the Mystery Legends PC game is based on a Worth design.**

**-The suicide note is a George Sand quote.**

**-19th century range cookers had no temperature control, so they took some getting used to. Keeping the oven and hob at a constant cooking temperature was something of an art.**

**-In the 19th century opiate addiction was considered less harmful than alcoholism as it was thought to cause less moral impairment. Smoking was considered to be healthy and you could buy any number of poisonous, addictive and explosive substances at your local chemist.**

**-The war mentioned is the war between France and Prussia in 1870.**


	9. The Fury and the Mark of Cain

**The Fury and the Mark of Cain**

* * *

**Disclaimer – I don't own Phantom nor am I making any form of profit from this story.**

**A/N – It's hot here. It's really really hot. And my room is full of mosquitoes. So while I'm being eaten alive, here's a chapter for you. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. I'm beginning to feel good about this story again, so hopefully that's a good sign. Not that I felt particularly bad about it, but things were getting slower than usual but now I feel pretty enthusiastic about writing again.**

* * *

After the diagnosis of, well actually the doctor hadn't bothered to tell her what the diagnosis was; Erik had shut himself away again. It was already dark outside and yet another rainy spell rattled the windows. For all its attractive points the sea could be truly miserable in winter and the same could be said of the house they now lived in which must have been beautiful in the long balmy summers but was now poorly lit and impossible to warm. They might as well have been below ground if it weren't for the blustery beach outside which seemed so desolate in February that not even the sea could stand it and was only there for half the day.

She had soaked their linen in soda water before hiding in her room, her resent failure in the kitchen and her dark mood had left dinner out of the question. Erik certainly didn't seem to have any desire for food in his present condition. Did he ever have a desire for food? It was hard to imagine him taking meals below the opera house but he was flesh and blood and couldn't live on music alone. But he was so thin, much thinner than she remembered. If that wasn't enough to worry about she had to listen to him in the adjacent room making sounds so filled with pain they were almost unbearable to listen to. How many nights had she lain awake in this darkness while a dying man cried out next door?

The night was horrific, having to listen to him moan and retch and not be able to do anything. For Erik had learned his lesson and kept his bedroom door locked and only seemed to venture out once she fell asleep. She had dutifully washed his things making sure to boil the sickness away, imagining that the cloudy water was the sea as she made steaming whirlpools with the wooden paddle. She would sail away somewhere warm on one of the flat bottomed fishing boats that floated in the little harbour. The sheets looked like sails as she wrung them out and draped them around the kitchen to dry as it was still far too wet outdoors.

The next morning she noticed the music box she had seen in his lair had somehow found itself hanging from the branches of the tree in the garden. Why would he throw such a thing out the window when he clearly cared enough about the object to bring it all the way from Paris? So she had knocked it from the skeletal branches with a broom and brought it inside, leaving it on top of the piano.

She had left a music box in Paris, another one of her father's compositions set in steel and gears. She had smashed it to pieces when she and the Giry's had returned from the funeral and wept as she glued it back together. The mechanism had been broken beyond repair and the trinket would be forever silent, like she had almost been. It made no difference, without his violin the song was soulless. Without her angel, her voice was lost. Christine had not been one to open boxes that were forbidden. She hadn't been a Pandora and was much more like the doll she had thought was a mirror that lay by the lake. That girl hadn't stood a chance and it was the sting of Erik's lies that had forced her hand, sent the mirror girl into hiding and revived the destructive creature that wished only to lay waste to the world. So when she noticed the catch on the base of the monkey's stand, she felt that her hand had been forced once again.

The catch opened a small hidden drawer at the base of the barrel organ which opened to reveal a mini apothecary of herbs and poisons. A small bag that held one or two dried flowers that she didn't recognise, another bag of dried mushrooms, the kind that grew in the darker corners of the Bois that Madame always claimed were poisonous. And finally in a leather case lay a syringe and a bottle of clear liquid. The same liquid she had bought at the pharmacy all those years ago.

It felt as though she had been rattling the door for hours before he finally opened it. With only the bandages hastily wound around his face like some kind of shroud with only a single bloodshot eye peering out at her and his loose oriental night clothes intended to hide the cadaverous figure beneath but only making it painfully visible from the manner in which they hung.

She did not stop to ask permission. The monster, the Fury that her father had created and the Phantom had fed and nurtured was raging against the cage she had so carefully built for it. Without the hesitation she had felt by the lake, she grabbed his right arm knowing that he favoured the left in his writing like the sinner he was and tugged the sleeve of his shirt up to reveal the abused wrist it concealed. The familiar marks that her father had worn and that she herself had learned to inflict.

"Do you think I don't know what these are, Erik?" he only stared at her, his visible eye wide with shock. "Do you think me so simple that I would not understand your need for such a thing?" he did not answer and only stared at his own arm where she still gripped it, his clammy skin covered not only with the telltale red marks but crisscrossed with countless other scars that she could only speculate about.

* * *

He had skulked away into the darkness again, too much of a coward to even look at her and face what he had done. Meanwhile his body felt like it was about turn itself inside out. He felt like he was being sawn in half from skull to groin. The temptation to end the pain was so great that he flung the solution out of his window and the monkey with it or he might have gone too far and taken too much. Letting the next three days blur into a haze of poisoned dreams and waking agony. He could not even find the energy to change masks, staying curled into a shivering ball like a wounded rodent. He had been so fixated on getting it away from him as fast as possible that he hadn't even thought of her finding it. He was glad somehow. Glad that fate had forced him to tell the truth, he would never have the courage to do so himself.

Her grip on his arm hurt, but it was worth it just to have her touch him. He welcomed every blow that ensued in the hope that it would ease her tears. She couldn't do much to harm him as she attempted to strike, there was nothing to her. Her outburst contained the powerless frustration of a child and he was uncomfortably reminded of how young she was, still so young and afraid of the world. What had he been like at that age? He could barely remember such a time, or perhaps he didn't wish to remember. That was how he felt about the disaster that was his life.

"How long have you been like this?" she cried, her eyes large and shining with unshed tears. "I cannot have this happen, not again. I will not let it. You can't leave me again. Not again." She wasn't making any sense, weeping incoherently as she raised her hand to strike him again. He grabbed her wrist as she came dangerously close to grabbing the bandages about his face. Anyone else would already be dead by now, the instinct was to break her little arms and squeeze the life from her throat. Instead he held her still as she struggled, letting her scream and cry out her anger until she collapsed against him, sobbing quietly into the dark silk on his shoulder. He felt it more than he heard it.

"Christine, I'm not going anywhere." He whispered, realising that she was almost embracing him. But she was not in her right mind; she did not know what she was doing. He felt her weight against him as she fainted away, her body as delicate as a bird's. Knowing her, she hadn't eaten in over a day and she was exhausted. His Christine was far too fragile for his murderous hands, his criminal lies and his addict's desperation.

He carried her back to her room and rested her unconscious form upon her bed. Her dark hair and black dress stood out starkly against her pallid skin and the sea of white and powder blue that made up her bedroom. Her eyelids and mouth seemed all the redder because of it, her dark brows knotted into a grave frown and her lips trembled with the whisper of nightmares. He was unwilling to leave her but knew that she needed nourishment or she would make herself ill and so he darted to the larder and soon returned with a jar of apricot jam.

She had already begun to come round when he returned, her complexion was no longer so grey but her breathing was still slow and laboured and her tears were still flowing freely. He held a spoonful to her lips and felt his pulse rush as she took it in her mouth, the smallest glimpse of her pink tongue as she licked the amber preserve from her lip.

"I can explain." He tried to say but the week had left his throat dry and his voice was almost gone.

"You're dying aren't you? Father took morphine when he was dying. I gave it to him myself. And now so are you." She sobbed quietly, wiping her eyes, then her mouth with the back of her hand; he wanted to take it and lick away the salt and sugar.

"That's not why I take it Christine." He replied, moving from kneeling on the rug to take a seat on the edge of the bed. He felt frightened, too exposed to be confessing such a thing, too naked. The nightclothes were not enough to hide his damaged flesh.

"I don't understand."

"Did you father ever feel as though he could not live without it? Even though it might kill him?" she flinched away at his words, a fresh onslaught of tears threatening to fall as she nodded. "Well that is how it is for me. I was injured, a long time ago and needed it for the pain. I was travelling through places where opium was cheaper than other medicines; sometimes it was even cheaper than food. And before long it felt as though my own existence was a source of pain. Life held no joy but for the poppy's sleep until that too became pain. But I still was not able to stop. It began to control me; it allowed others to control me. People died by my hand because of it. What you've seen has been my recovery from this poison."

"Have you been this way all this time?"

"I managed to stop myself, once before." he didn't wish to elaborate but still felt he owed it to her to tell the truth if she asked for it.

"But you started again. That's why you changed so suddenly." It was too late she had already worked it out. She was already thinking of the incident with Joseph Bouquet. The girl had always been far too clever. "Was it because of me?"

"Yes, but it's not your fault. It was my own foolishness. But I assure you I am not dying, you can be certain of that much at least."

"Did you tell the doctor?"

"Yes, I asked him not to say anything. I don't know why. I was ashamed. If it were only the addiction I would have confessed, but two men are dead because of me and countless others before them. You must have already guessed that."

"Two men?" It didn't take long for the truth to dawn on her. "Erik, did you kill Senior Piangi?"

"It was an accident, I had no wish to end his life." He tried to say calmly, she would ask to be freed, he would have to let her go, and it would be the only decent thing to do.

"And what about Joseph? Was he an accident too?" She cried, she had that same expression she wore the night she saw his face. He could hardly bear to look at her as he stood to turn towards the window.

"No." He said simply. "Do you see now? Do you see how truly ugly I am. This face marks me like the mark of Cain. Like him I was forced to wander this world. But even my own cruelty would pale in comparison to the cruelty of man, and of fate. If you wish to leave this place I won't stop you. You have every right to condemn me. I am a monster." She said nothing for a long time.

The silence of the room suffocated him. She might as well have been preparing his death sentence. There would be no point in living after she left. After a while he imagined that she had simply gone without a word, he didn't blame her. He was so convinced that she had gone that he jumped with surprise when he felt her hand on his shoulder. He trembled at the gentle touch of her fingers, cool and moving with a painful slowness towards the back of his neck and into his hair. He still wasn't used to being touched; in fact he would have shied away from it if it had been anyone else. But he was more than willing to let Christine do whatever she wanted with him.

He squeezed his eye shut as he felt the bandages slipping and the cold and unfamiliar rush of air against his deformity. He realised her hands had been shaking, as though she was expecting him to lash out at her like before. He remained still, waiting as though he were anticipating a firing squad.

* * *

A number of things had happened in the few days following Christine Daae's disappearance. The first being the Funeral of Ubaldo Piangi, which had happened almost as soon as his body had been released and had been a private affair for his and La Carlotta's friends and supporters as a select few of the Opera cast members. Unsurprisingly, Meg and her mother were not invited and neither was the Vicomte. The gossip had painted all three of them as nothing less than co-conspirators in this bizarre affair. Not even the managers had been invited, probably because they had insisted on reopening Don Juan Triumphant where Piangi had met his unfortunate end. Shortly after that the police had closed the investigation as days of searching below the opera had brought no results. Meg also suspected that the DeChagny family had something to do with it as well, wanting to close the case as soon as possible in the hopes that the current scandal with their son would soon blow over.

When it became apparent that the murderer of her co-star could not be identified of traced, Carlotta had abruptly left the Opera company, and was rumoured to have retired from public life altogether but Meg doubted that would last for long. The entire opera house breathed a sigh of relief that day. But the soprano's sudden departure had not done much to ease the tension among the company and stage workers. Their superstitions began to run wild as the Managers made their plans to reopen thinking only of ticket sales. Some believed that the opera was cursed and that something terrible would befall whoever was cast in the two leading roles. Other's thought that the very name was bad luck and dared not say it, calling it only the Phantom's Opera. But the scandal surrounding the work and the surprising critical response had left all of Paris clamouring for a ticket. They would reopen that Friday with Paul Lherie as Don Juan and Blanche Deschamps as Aminta. Meg knew that no matter how well they sang they would never be able to recreate the passion of the opening performance.

The final and perhaps the most incredible thing that had happened that week was as soon as the police had cleared out and she had thought all was lost, her mother had returned home with a man named Patrice Mifroid. She trusted her mother without question, it had been why she had not explored the dark passageways she had found from time to time, why she had stopped getting frustrated with Christine every time she broke down into one of her dark melancholic moods and why until now she had not told the Vicomte to take a running jump and leave their family alone. She had been jealous of course, she couldn't really deny it, but not of Christine.

She had envied her when they were little because she had a father and because her voice was so beautiful while Meg sounded like a squawking parrot. But she figured that she could dance better and she had a mother so it all evened out, and if Monsieur Daae hadn't become so ill they could have all been one big happy family. That was what she had been hoping for, ever since her father had come home from the war infected and dying and she wanted so desperately to have a sister who was dark haired and shy and sang like an angel. And the bastards had broken her and taken her away. And she was jealous of them getting so much of her attention; after all they had been friends first. She knew it was childish, but they had made so many plans when they were little. They were going to be famous all over Europe and maybe move to America and become famous there too. And then her father had died, and Christine was never the same again. And while they lived in the same place and were a little closer to being a proper family, the weight of her grief had made them more alone than ever.

Monsieur Mifroid had been an odd little man with even odder facial hair, who had met with them in a nearby cafe brandishing a bundle of letters and a map of Paris.

"You will be very proud of me Madame for I have made some excellent progress." He said, seeming too excited to even notice her presence.

"That's wonderful news Monsieur and I am eager to hear it." Her mother replied, breathless with relief. "Allow me to introduce my daughter, Meg. She offered to help us."

"Good evening, Mademoiselle." The man nodded, and quickly unfolded the map. "I had a breakthrough with the code you gave me. It was a challenge since a lot of the location our friend specifies, don't exist anymore. I had a lot of cross referencing to do. Now the locations circled in red represent the entrances to the underground system that are currently in operation, the ones in black have all been blocked since the list was written. Now there is a chance that our friend might have discovered or built new ways in to the complex, and we'll have to check for that once we get down there."

"Get down there? You mean you actually want to go below the cellars again." Meg interrupted, shivering a little at the thought. The rumours about that place were pretty horrible.

"Don't worry, dear. The police have already cleared a safe way down." Her mother reassured. "And you don't have to go if you don't want to."

"As I was saying," Mifroid continued. "At first I convinced he had used this exit that comes out of a pipe that runs into the Seine just outside the city. However I soon realised that there was another way out under the Pont de L'Europe. Now this is only a gut feeling mind you, but feel that this is the route he took, under the bridge and out of Paris via St Lazare."

"But I thought the police ordered patrols at the stations, how could he have gotten past?" her mother questioned.

"There was a good four hours before that order was put into place, Madame. If he was taking a conventional route we would have caught him the next morning. But it's possible that he and Mlle Daae hid aboard one of the night freighters before the police even arrived. Now it isn't definite, but it seems like the most likely direction they would have gone. It would also be the fastest way to leave the city at that time of night."

"Then I suppose that's where we should look next." Madame Giry agreed. "But I must warn you, we are not the only one's taking things into our own hands. Several members of the corps de ballet saw the vicomte sneaking around the dormitories the other night. I suspect he was attempting to search Christine's room. We'll have to be careful from now on."

Meg understood her mother's reasons behind not wanting to involve Raoul deChagny. She didn't exactly agree with them, because as much as the man irked her, he still cared for Christine as much as they did and had as much of a right to know what was going on. But she also knew that if they did let the vicomte get involved things would not be resolved peacefully if they found the ghost, and mother still had an odd sense of protectiveness over the man. And in a sense, the Phantom had been good them. She and Christine had always been well taken care of, always able to afford new dance clothes and stockings, always having a few more underclothes than the other dancers, an extra pair of boots, a good coat for the winter. Her mother had been able to buy a few basic luxuries that her regular salary would not be able to provide. In short she had always felt safe under his protection, but from the incidents that were happening all around them she was greatly aware of what might happen if they didn't stay on his good side.

"Alright, I'll handle Monsieur deChagny." Meg suggested, "I'll find out what he knows and make sure he doesn't find out about what we're doing."

* * *

She was so relieved that Erik wasn't dying that it took a moment for the information to sink in. He had killed twice in the last six months, one was an accident according to him and one was not. Who had the others been? She could hardly cast stones, but the thought still frightened her as she remembered Joseph's lifeless body hanging like a marionette above the stage. She needed to see him then, needed to see the truth, and to see if he truly was as remorseful as he seemed. Before she reached for the gauze around his face she couldn't help but touch his shoulder reassuringly, as though he was a feral animal that needed to be calmed. He was still touched by the fever, that wasn't a fever at all, and his skin seemed to boil beneath the fabric of his shirt. She steeled herself as her fingers moved through the straight wisps of brown hair at the base of his neck, which despite being damp with sweat seemed impossibly soft.

The cloth fell from his face, she could only see the reflection of it in the window he faced, a transparent ghost against the maritime landscape outside. It certainly wasn't as terrible as she remembered. Perhaps the harsh shadows of the flickering candles and his fury had exaggerated the deformity into something demonic and terrifying. In the soft light of the sunset, his face seemed entirely different. It wasn't pleasant in any sense of the word, but without the mystery surrounding it, it was only a face, albeit a morbidly fascinating one. She couldn't help noticing his eyes were different colours as they opened slowly to gaze at her through decades of tears, the one that had been uncovered sat dead and unmoving, set back within a heavily scarred socket. It was hard to tell where the deformity ended and the scars began, leaving only an ambiguous mass of mottled tissue.

She thought of the needles stored within the music box and how it was possible that something as small as a pin prick could alter him as he had described. She couldn't believe that Erik would willingly kill someone if he was in his right mind, so that must have been it. But if he was altered, then perhaps father had also been altered, towards the end. What if he hadn't meant it? She had looked at the collection of chemicals with a familiar urge of annihilation. The same as the evening by her father's tomb, and the first time she heard him up on the rooftop, with the pigeons. And there were probably countless other times when his voice had brought her back from the edge of despondency. How could he have taken a life when he had saved hers so many times?

The last visit to the graveyard had been on impulse as she had ventured out in her cloak and mourning dress, one of the three that made up the entirety of her old wardrobe. Although her return to ordinary fashions was long overdue, the Worth meringues that Raoul had bought her felt inappropriate and garish in comparison. The sudden change irked her and outside of their dinners she never wore them. She glanced at the dress she was wearing now. It was black like the one she had worn that night, but while it was simple and meant for every day wear, it still probably cost twice as much as her best dress but less than half of what Raoul had spent. It felt strange suddenly having all those new clothes, far more than were necessary but each was beautiful and unique in its own right. Had Erik picked each design out personally, or had he simply ordered them from a catalogue. She had searched the wardrobe for the wedding dress she had seen that night by the underground lake only to find it missing and could only begin to wonder what that meant or why she felt disappointed by its absence.

She had gone out with the remainder of her chloral solution and a hastily written suicide note. It wasn't even a note, just a quotation from a novel she had read once. She hadn't really known why it sprung to mind, but felt it was appropriate. Madame would have understood what it meant even if no one else did.

"Erik, I cannot leave you like this." She whispered solemnly.

"I don't want your pity, Christine." He said, his voice sounded weak and broken and it frightened her. "And any sense of duty you might feel was gained through lies and deceit. You should ignore it entirely."

"I do not pity you. You are not marked, Erik. It such things were true then others would bear far worse. This face tells the story of everything you've been through. The only horror I feel is the horror of knowing of the things that have befallen you. And for that I can only admire and respect you."

"Yesterday, when you said it made no difference..."

"I meant it. It makes no difference at all." She reassured him, hesitantly reaching out to touch his disfigured cheek. For something so harsh and ragged, his skin was surprisingly soft and delicate. She felt him tense under her fingers; almost flinching away in the anticipation of violence and by the looks of things that face had seen plenty of it. He didn't move though, and she felt a swell of pride knowing that he would allow her to touch him. "And as for your past, I suppose the only important thing is its influence on you now." She noted the flash of panic in his eyes. "But for now you need to concentrate on your recovery, and then we shall discuss the matter further."

She felt him tremble, felt the warm tears fall and felt him slowly lean into her palm like a cat hungry for affection.

"Are you tired Erik? Yes I think perhaps we're both very tired." She said leading him to the brass bed that had carried her to minutes earlier, feeling the weight of exhaustion rest heavily upon her eyes from staying up all night worrying. "You can rest here for now while I fix up your room."

* * *

He awoke after what felt like an eternity and a moment in a strange place that he knew far too well. He had designed it entirely from scratch. There was no trace of his old life in this place, none of his old belongings. Everything was new and clean and white and contained only sweet things that she would enjoy. It was almost too brief to notice but this room had made her smile, if only for a moment. The pillow was already saturated with her scent, the feminine smell of roses and lavender and the unique scent of her hair which sparked such a strong reaction within him. It seemed stupid, but he was already beginning to feel better just by being near her. The thought of her allowing him to sleep in her bed like this made him breathless, and the idea that it could happen again only with her beside him. That would be more than enough, even if all she wanted to do was sleep he would hold her close and protect her in her dreams.

From the muddy colour of the sky, the sun had almost finished setting, making it around five o'clock or thereabouts. He had barely been asleep for an hour before the dreams returned. The first two were now growing murky in his memory, nothing of significance just irrational terror. The third dream however had involved _her, _floating lifelessly up through the water and colliding with a mirror of ice. And all at once he had felt as though he was watching her from both sides of it, seeing both her face and his own and not being sure which was real and which one was the reflection. That was when the ice cracked and he had awoken.

The crack in the ice turned out to be the turning of a latch and he watched silently as Christine returned, carrying a pitcher of water and a glass. He didn't move when she approached and placed them on the bedside table.

"Did I wake you?"

"No, I was already awake." He lied, but he was grateful that she had released him from the nightmare.

"I'm sorry I hit you, earlier."

"Don't worry, I deserved it. I'm sorry I didn't tell you the truth."

"Thank you for telling me now." She said finally. "I put your sheets in to soak but the other set won't be dry for a while I'm afraid."

"Thank you, you didn't have to do that."

"It needed to be done, I haven't done a wash in years, and I'm a little out of practise." She must have been insane doing the laundry on her own; it was a two person job at least and even then it took up most of the day. No wonder she looked exhausted. However this left them with the dilemma of only having one useable bed. But this wouldn't be the first time he'd made do with a bare mattress.

"I should go; you look as though you need some sleep too."

"No, no. You're not feeling well; I'll just sleep on the sofa downstairs." She insisted.

"It's freeing down there. What sort of gentleman would I be if I let you do that?" Erik replied, getting up to leave. The awkward silence hung around them like a fog as the unasked question hung heavily on his mind. He had reached the doorway when she spoke up.

"Won't you stay?"

He looked around nervously, not quite believing what she had just said. But he was not virtuous enough to refuse a request like that even if it was only sleeping and nothing more. Without saying anything he slipped back under the blue and white quilt. Christine grabbed her nightclothes from where they hung over a chair left the room. For a horrible moment he thought that he had misunderstood her, but the sound of running water from the bathroom, made it clear that she was getting ready for bed. She seemed to take forever, and he imagined her slowly undoing every clasp, lace and button, the layers of petticoats and bruising stays. He should have ordered something more bohemian for her to wear, something that didn't involve suffocation. He was about to doze off again when he heard a click from the doorway and the rustle of linen as she climbed into bed next to him.

* * *

**To be Continued**


	10. The Frost

**The Frost**

* * *

**Diclaimer - I don't own Phantom or any of its adaptations. This fic is for entertainment purposes and not for profit.**

**A/N – Hey all, sorry for being late again. I suck at sticking to my own deadlines. So without further ado here is chapter ten. I hope you enjoy it.**

* * *

They slept back to back that night or at least they started out that way. For hours Erik felt her warmth as it radiated across the few inched between them, or perhaps he was only imagining it as he had never let himself get so close to her for so long. With the exhaustion from the day's fevered withdrawals, the arousal he would normally have felt in such a situation was blessedly absent. In a way he felt thankful for this, that he could simply enjoy her presence without distraction, and remember every detail of the night before the dreaded talk they bound to have the next morning when they had come to their senses.

There was no chance of him succumbing to sleep that night, he realised as he rolled onto his back and stared at the white cotton canopy that hung above the bed. It felt as though he was defiling the House of the Vestals by being in that room. This space that he had designed specifically to feel safe and feminine, was not for him. But then he was still getting used to having a bed, having spent so many years nesting on old mattresses thrown out by the dormitories. There was no damp here, no distant sounds of rodents and dripping pipes, only warmth and the scent of lavender and roses.

He glanced at the elegant white shape of her back. Her hair that had once been the colour of aged gold as a child and had darkened to a mass of rich brown curls lay in disarray across the pillow. The neckline of her nightgown stretched down slightly to reveal the beginnings of the scratch she had sustained during their escape, although in the gloom he couldn't make out how much it had healed since he last saw it. He was surprised at how quickly she fell asleep, seemingly unconcerned with having a murderous phantom in her bed. Perhaps she had simply exhausted herself with household chores and from being kept awake at night by his screaming. The house was far too large for one person to take care of, and he knew that Christine was rather particular about keeping things tidy. Even two people sharing the housekeeping was a bit of a stretch. He would have to contribute more once he recovered, provided she still wanted to stay of course. He would have to subdue his untidy ways and do everything to make her comfortable, to make her feel that she made the right choice in coming here.

He flinched slightly as she rolled over in her sleep. Her nights had always been restless ever since she was a child and he had always sung away her nightmares. He dared not move a muscle as she fidgeted in her sleep, somehow letting an arm fall across his chest and wrapping itself around his middle. To his surprise she did not move away again but settled down snuggling closer until her head rested on his shoulder. He had never felt anything like it before. She had taken his hand a few times and because of regrettable circumstances he had needed to carry her, but that innocent contact was nothing compared with this. Even tending to the cut on her back seemed mundane in comparison, when he could feel the warmth of her skin through their night-clothes and her breath against his neck. He couldn't help but pull her closer and realised that this was the first time he had touched her waist without the steel barrier of a corset. She was so small and soft, so delicate with her thin frame. And while he wished he could cherish the feeling for a few moments longer, he found the pull of sleep grasp him for the first time in days. Sleep without dreams or pain.

* * *

"Well I can't say I'm completely shocked." Meg said with a sigh, putting down the hastily scribbled note. Mother and the slightly dodgy policeman she'd hired were beginning to investigate the cellars. She hadn't eve needed to contact the young man, as since Christine's disappearance, the viscount had been treating her like some sort of agony aunt from a magazine.

"How could you not be? Do you even know what this means?" the young man cried and the ballerina felt the beginning of a headache coming on.

"No Raoul, my frail female brain couldn't possibly understand something like this, please explain it to me, and don't use too many long words." She said sarcastically, earning herself a glare in return. "The truth is I've been seeing this note in my nightmares for some time now, Monsieur. So no, this doesn't surprise me, it just makes my blood run cold."

"It was in her cloak, she must have had it with her that night in the graveyard. To think if I hadn't arrived when I did she might have gone through with it?" The viscount said miserably. "Do you think that's why she let him take her like that; do you think she wanted to die?" he sighed "When she told me about him that night on the roof, she was standing so close to the edge. She was convinced that this man was out to kill her, she was terrified, but she gazed at the streetlamps below as though they were calling to her."

Meg bit the inside of her cheek nervously; the thought of her dearest friend wishing for oblivion seemed so repellent that it almost didn't bear thinking about. But the idea had taken seed in her mind ever since the night of the gala when Christine had disappeared for the first time and if even a dolt like Raoul could notice it then it must have been serious. Christine and her father had always had an air of melancholy about them. As a child she hadn't understood their sadness, but upon reflection these had been the signs of dying man and his grieving daughter. Her playmate had not fared well after his passing. She never complained, in fact she never talked much at all after his death, but Meg could hear her tears and her nightmares in the dark.

Then as if out of nowhere she had bounced back and Meg had caught a glimpse of the girl she had loved so dearly. The sadness was still there, but for a time it had been put aside. That had been before there had been any mention of an angel, but perhaps he had been responsible for that change in her. Perhaps the phantom had saved her from self destruction. The Opera he had written certainly drew a comparison to her character, albeit a highly dramatised one. The first act began with Don Juan mooning over his beautiful new maid Aminta. She is repulsed by him because he has arranged to have her father arrested to get him out of the way so he plans to seduce her under the guise of his manservant. The plan is successful and the first act ends with the two lovers singing a rather scandalous duet. In the second act, Aminta is horrified when she discovers her paramour's true identity but Don Juan keeps her trapped as his mistress by threatening her father's life and she is torn between her hatred of him and the lustful feelings he inspires within her. Passarino, Don Juan's manservant, is remorseful for the part he played in the plot and takes pity on her and offers to help her father escape from prison and get them both to safety, but Don Juan, driven mad by his own obsession, discovers their plan and locks Aminta in a tower in his house. In the third act, Passarino and Aminta's father return to the house only to find Don Juan waiting for them. A fight ensues; the old man is stabbed, Aminta is freed by Passarino but upon discovering the corpse of her father is driven mad and kills herself, leaving Don Juan and his mutinous servant alone with the guilt of what they have done.

"Well she had a very difficult time." Meg could only say, not feeling comfortable betraying her friend's secrets when she didn't even know them herself. Yes, maybe the Phantom knew something they did not.

"Yes, I suppose being shut up down there with that thing all night would drive anyone to suicide." Raoul said bitterly. "I knew I should have had the doctor check her, but she was so frightened I couldn't go through with it. Maybe I just didn't want to know; I'd never be able to marry her if a scandal like that got out."

"Pardon?" was he really saying what she thought he was saying.

"Forgive me, this is hardly a decent conversation for a Lady, but you've seen that opera, surely you must have some inkling of what it was implying."

"I think perhaps I do." Said Meg, now thoroughly convinced that while she understood the significance of Don Juan, the viscount certainly did not. She had always known Raoul DeChagny to be a selfish man, not so much out of any fundamental character flaw but from his privileged upbringing. He simply wasn't used to putting other people's needs before his own. Now at least he seemed largely remorseful for his part in the current tragedy even if his paranoia was making him assume the worst.

"That loathsome beast made you all perform his sick little fantasy, but now he's acting it out for real and Christine is the one to pay the price."

Meg bit back a groan of frustration. "Perhaps, if you're truly serious that is, because it seems to me that you're acting like a headless chicken, you should stop thinking such things and concentrate on finding her. It's all we can do right now or else we'll all go quite mad."

* * *

Christine awoke once more to the faint sound of church bells, discovering that they began every morning at six then every half hour to alert people of the time. It was still dark outside and she longed for the nearly endless days of summer again, without the darkness and the cold. But for once she wasn't cold at all, quite the opposite in fact as she was lying next to something incredibly warm. She cracked an eye open to see the faint outline of Erik's profile in the gloom. It all came back to her then, the ending of an evening so bizarre she might have dreamt it. How something had snapped inside of her and forced him to tell her what had made him so ill and what he had done. She hadn't known whether to be relieved or horrified and ended up feeling a mixture of the two. But relief had won through because she had wanted to hold onto him and never let go once she learned that he would recover. She should have been horrified at her own boldness. Good girls didn't ask men to share their beds, even if all they did was sleep. But instead it felt like the most natural thing in the world and while it might have only been a coincidence she had never felt so well rested. Erik also seemed to be at peace.

She sat up carefully, untangling herself from his unconscious embrace and lit the lamp on her bedside table feeling her arm and shoulder throb with complaint from sleeping in such a strange position and the scab on her back was still sore and healing. She felt sick and light headed, since all she had to eat the day before was a few spoonfuls of jam after her fainting fit. Looking over in the dim, sputtering light she realised that she had never seen Erik asleep before, and could never have imagined him so if she hadn't. His troubles were still there upon his brow, for a lifetime of horror could not be erased in one night, but in the early morning shadows there was a softness to his features that she had never encountered. Even his deformity, that had seemed so terrifying in the tomb-like shadows of his lair, seemed almost completely normal. Perhaps it was only in contrast to the inhuman white mask, or perhaps it was because in sleep he was revealing himself without shame or anger. Perhaps she was simply growing used to it to more she saw it. He was hardly handsome, at least not in a conventional sense, but there was something about him, some kind of intangible charisma that fascinated her and the deformity was somehow part of it.

But now her most fearful suspicions about him were more than just rumours or accusations. He had openly confessed to murder, although with such anguish and remorse that it pulled at her heart like a tuning key. She was truly at a loss, not knowing what to do or think or feel. But she had always been that way. Always clinging to the past and making the wrong decision, be it coming here, or agreeing to marry Raoul or never quite having the strength to end it all. Maybe all decisions were wrong in some way. She needed to get out of that house, if only for a few hours. She needed to relieve the ache in her limbs.

She dressed quickly in the bathroom, in the same black dress she had worn the day before. Her period of mourning for her father had long since ended and yet she had always favoured wearing black when she wasn't working, before she started seeing Raoul at least. She had felt out of place in the colourful lacy concoctions she had worn when they dined together, feeling painfully aware that each gown was worth more than a year's wages and not wanting to move for fear of tearing something. Poor Raoul, how very wicked she had become. She rifled through the medicine cabinet in the hope of finding something to banish the galloping in her head but found nothing she recognised. Madame Giry had always taken care of such things and she found herself deeply regretting not asking her about the many tinctures and pills she handed out for sprained ankles. She missed the older woman very much. Perhaps one day it might be safe enough to write to her. She seemed to know about Erik after all, but had always brushed off her questions like snow on a fur coat, so perhaps they could trust her with their hiding place or even just to tell her she was safe. Finally she decided to go with the bottle marked Chevalier's Restorative Oil, whose label boasted the ability to relieve rheumatism, sprains, strains, bruises, soreness, stiffness and sore throats. Since she had most of these things, she emptied a pipette of the tonic onto her tongue and grimaced at the foul taste.

The house was still stuffy and oppressive after three days with the smoky and unreliable range and the condensation of her breath on the windows, all the dust and fluff she had forgotten to sweep up (where did it all come from) and the steam of the scullery. She really felt as though she was growing quite unwell from being cooped up the little house. Surely no one would notice if she took a short walk to get some fresh sea air and clear her head. If she was going to think over all that had happened the evening before, she would need to be alone for a while to gather her thoughts. She slipped on her coat and boots in the entrance hallway, the ones she had arrived in. There was also a deep red woollen scarf and black leather gloves which she assumed belonged to Erik, but surely he wouldn't mind if she borrowed them for an hour or so, and the black veiled hat from their journey here with her wild uncombed hair hastily twisted underneath it left her ready to brave the outdoors.

The sky had cleared overnight and a heavy frost had descended upon the garden making it glitter like diamonds. The lawn, the bare flowerbeds and the old swing she had taken a liking to all sparkled as the sky turned red with the approaching day. The blades of grass crunched beneath her feet as she crept through the large walled garden and out through the back gate. If she had been any other girl she would have run as fast as her legs would carry her, and find someone, anyone who could help her. But she wasn't any other girl. She had not been taught the black and white code of morality but a more ambiguous set of ethics in shades of grey. Not to say that she didn't know the difference between right and wrong, but her father and later Mme Giry had always taught her to look at the causes of the wrongs before condemning them entirely. Perhaps Madame had known Erik better then she thought, perhaps that was the reason behind those grey areas. If only she knew the answer, but it felt as though her mind was beginning to unfold itself, just behind her eyes and all the thoughts were flying away into nothingness like smoke.

She walked down the dirt road they had taken on the last stretch of their journey, avoiding the frozen puddles as she went. Tall trees surrounded her on both sides, a lot taller than she remembered. In fact the whole place seemed so much darker than usual, the holes in the ground much deeper. Each rustle of a leaf or flap of birds' wings startled her sending her off the path and across the forest floor. Was she being followed? She always had the feeling of being watched, and to her surprise this intuition had been right. Now she had that feeling once again. He was there, she just knew it, and he was angry. And she was nothing but smoke. Her vision blackened, the thump of her heartbeat resounded in her head making her whole body throb and she upon the snowdrop covered earth and into nothingness.


End file.
